


The Prince of Hearts

by prettysailorsoldier



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Matchmaker Sherlock, Matchmaking, Modern Royalty, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Prince John Watson, Royalty, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-09-29 00:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is making big waves in London as the head of a thriving matchmaking firm, his unconventional approach earning him the title 'The Chemist'. To Sherlock, love is in the data, a collection of variables plugged into equations to calculate the perfect match, but, when the royal family of the small country of Galerre hires him to find a spouse for the crown prince, he will find that some matters of the heart are not so easily solved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Last time I thought I'd post a fic between Christmas and New Year's it went until May and was over 50k, so I don't know what's about to happen any more than you do, but I hope we all enjoy the ride!!

“Love is a science. A formula. A collection of variables we can plug into equations to calculate your perfect match. We give you two personality tests, run algorithms on your social media—all confidential, of course—and conduct a series of personal interviews to get a complete picture of who you are: your interests, values, likes and dislikes. Then we enter that profile into our system and evaluate each match personally, further narrowing it down. At that point, you can come in, take a look at your options, and choose which ones you would like to pursue on individual dates, or we can include you and a handful of your matches in one of our bi-monthly mixers, if you’d be more comfortable in a group setting. After that”—Sherlock leaned forward over his desk, folding his fingers atop the red application packet opened and scattered across the surface—“I’m afraid it’s a matter of patience. But I believe our success speaks for itself.” He turned to the dark wooden bookshelves flanking the wide window on the side wall of his corner office, floor-to-ceiling photographs of weddings, proposals, and inaugural dogs or children interspersed amongst pointless trinkets and decorations Molly had insisted upon.

“It humanizes you,” she had said as she’d tucked sprigs of fake holly around the gilded picture frames last weekend. “If you want people to trust you with their hearts, you have to show them you have one.”

“With plastic holly?” he’d mocked, but Molly had just rolled her eyes, accustomed as she was to his cynicism, and continued her work, sneaking a miniature silver Christmas tree onto the corner of his desk when he’d gone to lunch.

He was allowing it to stay. For now.

“Wow,” the woman in front of him—Sarah? Sandra? He’d check the paperwork later—said, chuckling nervously, wringing her black leather gloves in her hands, “it all sounds so…thorough.”

Sherlock tipped his head. “It can seem overwhelming, looking at it like this.” He waved a hand over the scattering of forms. “But it only takes a couple hours. The personality tests are online so you can complete them at your leisure, and we sign all the social media consents now. We could schedule your in-person interview with myself or my partner as early as”—he paused, leaning back to check the calendar open on his desktop—“this coming Monday. Our mixer on the 14th is already full, but I could get you set up for the 28th, if you’d like. Individual dates even earlier.”

“No, I-I’d prefer the mixer,” she murmured, that much already obvious to Sherlock, of course, but he’d learned to waste time offering them the options over the years, people tending to find it unnerving when he told them what they wanted, even if he was always right. “Probably easier, aren’t they?”

“Most people prefer them. At least until they get comfortable with the process.”

The woman—Sandra, he saw, glancing down when she dropped her head—huffed a short laugh, her bright pink lips lifting in a fragile smile. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable,” she said, and Sherlock took a breath, steeling himself for the inevitable hand-holding portion of the meeting. “After the divorce, I threw myself into my work. Trying to get this account or that office or the next big promotion. Then, earlier this year, I made partner, and I realized…there was nowhere else to go.” She shrugged, her youthful face weary with regret. “I’d run out of room to climb, but it still wasn’t high enough.”

Sherlock nodded, placing his elbows on the desk as he leaned into the conversation. “Almost all of our clients have the same story. Minus the lawyer part, of course.”

She chuckled, and Sherlock smiled, grateful to have escaped the waterworks this time around.

“It’s not the uphill battle it seems. And we’ve got a great team here to help you every step of the way.”

“I know,” Sandra said, and then sighed, rattling her head. “I know,” she echoed, more firmly this time, as if confirming it to herself. “It’s just-”

“Hard to give up control,” Sherlock interjected, nodding his understanding. “Of course. But you’re in very good hands. They don’t interview just anyone for _The Guardian_ , you know,” he joked, and Sandra laughed, bobbing her head as she pulled the strap of her purse onto her shoulder and stood, Sherlock following her lead.

“No, I suppose they don’t. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please,” he insisted, walking around his desk to take her offered hand. “Let me walk you out,” he said, waving a hand toward the door, and Sandra dipped her chin in thanks, starting out ahead of him. “Molly will have those tests in your inbox within the hour”—Molly looked up from her computer, smiling in confirmation as they passed—“and you can work out an interview time with her later this week.”

“Alright.” Sandra stopped in the doorway, turning around to look at him, her smiled frayed with worry at the edges.

Sherlock hitched up his most reassuring smile. “We’ve got it all under control,” he said, and the tension eased from her shoulders as she sighed around a nod.

“Thank you.” She leaned around him, waving a hand to include Molly in her farewell, and then started away down the corridor, Sherlock waiting the socially required amount of time before closing the door behind her.

He leaned into the wood, listening to her heels clicking away, the faint chime of the lift door, releasing a groaning sigh only when he heard the hum of the lift cables carrying Sandra to the lobby below.

“Oh, please,” Molly muttered, rolling her eyes as she pushed back in her rolling chair, folding her arms over her chest and shaking her head at him. “You haven’t done a client interview in _months_. And I threw you an easy one!”

“A divorced workaholic?”

“A 32-year-old, _attractive_ workaholic; no kids; no overactive tear ducts.” Molly shrugged, lifting her festive paper coffee cup to her lips. “You should be kissing my 60%-off designer heels.”

A door clicked open behind her, swinging in as the occupant stepped out to lean against the doorjamb. “I’ve created a monster,” Irene Adler said, a fond smile curling her scarlet lips, silver nails perched on the hip of her tailored black dress. “This must be what having children feels like.”

“And where were you?” Sherlock blustered, glaring across the room at his business partner and headache-inducer.

Irene flicked her nails in the air, clicking across the room on her red heels to grab a hard sweet from the candy-cane-striped bowl on Molly’s desk. “ _I_ was having brunch with our newest client.” She lifted an imperious brow, crinkling open the wrapper and dropping the golden plastic into the bin. “A Mr. James Ellsworth Jr.”

“As in Ellsworth Construction?”

Irene perched on the edge of Molly’s desk, winking down at her. “The very same. Looks like someone’s getting a Christmas bonus.”

Sherlock huffed, moving to snag a peppermint from the bowl himself. “Does he know you’re not…masculine-inclined?” he asked, and Irene twitched a shoulder, popping the sweet in her mouth.

“Didn’t come up,” she mumbled around the sugary orb, Sherlock rolling his eyes while Molly laughed. “We’ll find someone better for him anyway.”

“Like someone who likes men?”

“I have been reliably informed they still exist.” Irene patted Molly’s head in demonstration, Molly swatting her fingers away with a good-natured huff before clicking at her mouse.

“Irene, you’ve got a 2:30 and a 4. I’ve got the packet for the 2:30 on your desk. His personality tests came back a little low on assertive and high on trusting.”

“Great,” Irene muttered, standing up and heading for the office coffee maker, “a broken heart.”

“That we will mend!” Molly chimed, bobbing her head cheerily as she continued navigating through he computer. “Sherlock, you have-”

“The rest of the day off?” he wished, and Molly lifted a smirk up through her lashes.

“Not quite. You’ve got a 1:30. Sounds like an exploratory meeting, he was kinda squirrelly on the phone”—she wrinkled her nose, peeling the top sheet of a notepad off her desk—“but he asked for you personally.”

“Really?” He checked his watch, less than half an hour left to choke down some semblance of lunch. “Why?”

“Didn’t say,” Molly shrugged. “Just told me he needed The Chemist.” She giggled at his feigned wretch, and then shooed him into his office with a wave of her hands. “Go, I’ve already got Speedy’s bringing up your sandwich.”

Sherlock chuckled, glancing down at the brief notation on the sheet of paper as he shuffled toward his office. “What would I do without you?” he mused, and Molly sniffed a scoff through her nose.

“Starve,” she muttered, Irene cackling into her coffee, and Sherlock turned to shake his head at the pair of them before closing the door in their smirking faces, placing Molly’s note on his dark cherry desk—a splurge he had allowed himself when they moved into the new office—for now as he moved to one of the windows, folding his arms and staring out over the bustling street below.

When he’d started setting up his lovelorn friends in colleges—mostly to spare himself their whining—he had never thought he would use his strange curse of deductive reasoning to start a business, let alone a successful one. Molly, his roommate at the time, had suggested setting up just a small service in a corner of their living room, more a designated desk than an office, meeting busy students and haggard professors wearing sunglasses they thought made them incognito Captain America in coffee shops and cafes around Central London, compiling a small database from which to pick and pluck. He’d thought he would use it as a starting point, a diving board, bouncing from here into a more lucrative position that better suited the chemistry masters he was working toward, but, as it turned out—and as he should have expected, looking back—there is nothing more lucrative than romance. Sex may sell, but love was winning the lottery, and, when a small London newspaper ran a feature on his startup as he was entering his last year of grad school, a corner of their drafty two-bedroom apartment would no longer suffice, and so The Science of Attraction was born, his unconventional background earning him the title “The Chemist”.

With Molly and him both working towards advanced degrees, however, they needed help. Enter Irene Adler, fresh from Barts with a masters in clinical psychology and a professional interest in their numbers-first approach, though she would later admit to starting to enjoy the job after half a bottle of tequila at the first office Christmas party—a forgiving name for the three of them breaking in their new office with a tiny TV and nonstop cheesy Christmas movies.

“It’s love, ya know?” she had slurred, one arm slung around Sherlock’s shoulder as she threatened to pull him off the folding chair they were using for temporary furniture. “It’s not rainbows and-and roses…and whiskers on kittens”—she’d stopped to giggle at herself—“but it’s still _real_. It still makes people happy. It’s still love, man, LOVE IS LOVE!” she’d cried, attempting to toss her hands in the air but only chopping Sherlock in the throat, and then they were all on the floor, pissed and laughing at the sheer dumb luck of it all.

Sherlock had bought the desk at the start of that new year, the first of many changes to follow in the next few months. Molly and him had moved out of their apartment, finding their own small studios closer to the office and within two kilometers of one another.

“You might not be across the hall, but you’re gonna stay within walking distance,” she had said, and he had rolled his eyes in tame and token protest.

Irene was brought on as a full partner, bringing in a small mountain of a contract Sherlock had blindly thumped to the last page of and signed. “Are you mad?” she’d railed, watching him, her mouth hanging open. “You should be having a lawyer look over _all_ your contracts. I could be taking your shirt in there!”

“You’ve been fairly vocal about your opinion of my shirts,” Sherlock had replied, capping the pen and dropping it back into his desk organizer. “Besides, I trust you,” he’d added, Irene staring dumbly at him for a long moment before turning away, her voice definitely _not_ watery as she called over her shoulder.

“I get everything if you die.”

It had been five years since then, Sherlock now 28 and on everyone’s top-whatever under-whatever lists, but Irene was 31, so he thought that ought to have dragged their average up. He wasn’t allowed to say that in interviews anymore though, for whatever reason.

The door rattled with a knock, and Sherlock turned to find Molly’s sheepish smile poking in. “I just buzzed in your 1:30,” she said, pushing open the door to reveal the brown paper bag swinging from her hand. “He’s eager, I guess. You want me to keep him out here for a bit or-”

Sherlock cut her off with a shake of his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m not that hungry anyway.”

“More like you’ve ruined your appetite with a pot of coffee,” Molly muttered, walking back into the main office, Sherlock tracking after her as she tucked his sandwich into the fridge.

“So what can you tell me about this guy before he gets to the door?”

“You didn’t read my notes?”

“I…skimmed,” Sherlock murmured, Molly—ever patient—just shaking her head as she walked back to her desk.

“There wasn’t much to read anyway. Said his name was Greg and he needed to meet with you personally. And that it was ‘a difficult situation to explain over the phone.’” She curled her fingers around the words, shaking her head as she slid open a file drawer. “Very formal. Kept calling me ‘miss’.”

“Sounds ominous.”

“Not really,” Molly muttered, shrugging a shoulder. “He sounded nice enough.”

“How can you tell?” Sherlock chuckled, and Molly turned up a withering glare.

“I answer your phones _all day_ ,” she snipped, clanging the file drawer shut for emphasis. “You think I don’t know a creep when I hear one?”

Sherlock considered a moment, then tipped his head, conceding the point. “Fair enough,” he answered as the elevator chimed down the corridor, quick footsteps closing in on their office door, and Sherlock went to pour himself a cup of coffee, feeling Molly’s eyes burning into the back of his neck.

The door swung open a moment later, however, so she couldn’t do anything about it, her cheery voice bouncing around the room behind him. “Hello, welcome to Science of Attraction! I’m Molly; we spoke on the phone. You must be Greg.”

“Er, yes,” a man’s voice muttered. “It’s…lovely to meet you, Molly. Properly.”

Molly giggled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes down at his steaming coffee, sneaking a glance over his shoulder as he slid the pot back into place.

Greg was tall, mid-to-late thirties, at a guess, but his hair had jumped a few years ahead of him, streaks of silver-gray glinting in the light. He was wearing a long black coat, obscuring the bulk of his body, but his wide shoulders and slim face hinted at an athletic build. A days’ growth wreathed his bright smile, the grin stretching to light his brown eyes as he stared intently at Molly, though his listening could use some work. “Sorry, what?” he muttered, blinking and rattling his head, and Molly ducked her head with a chuckle, cheeks darkening as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I asked if you’d like something to drink,” she repeated, waving a hand toward Sherlock and the caffeine. “We have coffee, tea, bottles of water.”

“Oh, er, no, thank you,” Greg said, nodding to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, I assume.” He stepped around Molly, Sherlock meeting him halfway.

“Sherlock is fine,” he said, taking the offered hand, and Greg smiled, bobbing his head as they broke apart.

“Greg. I’m sorry to rush in like this”—he turned to include Molly in his apology—“but I’m afraid time is of the essence.”

Sherlock frowned, glancing over Greg’s shoulder to Molly’s shrug, but there was a first time for everything, he supposed. “Of course. Let’s head into my office and we’ll get started right away.” He gestured to the open door, and Greg started toward it, Sherlock dropping a hidden flick of his brows to Molly behind the man’s back.

“Please,” he said, waving down at the chair in front of his desk as he closed the door behind them, “have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Greg replied, taking off his coat to reveal a tailored gray suit, blue pinstripe shirt open at the collar.

Sherlock took his seat at the desk, planting his elbows on the surface and steepling his fingers as he waited for Greg to get settled. “So, Molly tells me your situation is…complex,” he began, and Greg chuckled, shifting in his seat.

“Something like that. I’m afraid I wasn’t…entirely honest with her on the phone.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the door, a guilty flush in his cheeks. “I’m not here…for me. Exactly.”

“That’s alright,” Sherlock said. “We get people coming in for reluctant friends and loved ones all the time.”

“I’m sure,” Greg chuckled, and then bit at his lip, wringing his hands in his lap, “but that’s not quite the situation either.”

Sherlock frowned, lifting a brow. “Oh?”

Greg ran a hand through his hair with a sigh, shaking his head down at the front of Sherlock’s desk. “It’s- I’m not sure how to-” He paused, dropping his face to his knees and taking a long, slow breath before lifting his chin, sitting up straight and resolute. “I’m here on behalf of Her Majesty the Queen of Galerre.”

Sherlock’s hands fell away from his chin, thumping to his desk as his lips dropped apart. “What?”

“Not for her, of course,” Greg continued, shuffling to the edge of his seat. “I’m hoping to obtain your services for her son, the crown prince. Or, well, he will be. If he’s engaged by Christmas.”

Sherlock blinked, rattling his head in an attempt to shake the ringing from his ears. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, lifting a palm to hold the assault of information at bay. “You’re saying you want me to find someone for a _prince_ to _propose to_ …before Christmas?”

“Well, on Christmas Eve,” Greg amended with a flick of his head. “It’s tradition that engagements are announced at the Christmas Eve ball.”

“Naturally,” Sherlock muttered, carding his fingers through his hair as he leaned back in his chair, looking out the window a moment to ground himself back in reality. “Mr. …?”

“Lestrade.”

“Mr. Lestrade,” he added, folding his hands on the edge of his desk, “I can appreciate your…predicament, but this is… _far_ outside our area of expertise, and, with less than a month-”

“Look, Sherlock, I-I understand this sounds…completely mad,” Greg said, leaning forward to stretch his hand onto the desk, “but…I’m afraid we’re out of options. If the prince is not engaged by Christmas Eve, he forfeits the throne. The queen and I have been encouraging him to pursue the multiple suitable options we’ve amassed, but the prince has been…reluctant to accept our advice. Or, perhaps, too eager.”

Sherlock frowned, intrigued in spite of himself and common sense. “What do you mean, ‘too eager’?”

Greg sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Twelve years ago…the king died. Unexpectedly,” he began, staring out the window, his brow heavy with thought. “The prince was only 18, just starting at university here in London and in no position to take the throne, and the queen was perfectly capable, so…” He trailed away, rolling a hand in the air to indicate the rest being history. “But, recently, a… _cousin_ of the king,” he continued, stressing the relation with pointed disdain, “has come forward to remind the legislature of an _archaic_ clause in Galerrean law that states any prospective heir to the throne must be married by the age of thirty or forfeit their spot in the line of succession. Some nonsense about producing heirs,” he added in a mutter, his distaste palpable. “Her Majesty has managed to convince them to give the prince until his thirty-first birthday in April to be married, on the condition that he is engaged by Christmas Eve, but they refuse to offer an extension. The prince is willing to marry whomever his mother deems most appropriate for the sake of the crown, but we—that is, the queen and myself—also want him to find someone he’s…compatible with. And then I came across an article about you and your agency, and, given our time constraints, your… _unique_ approach seemed like the perfect solution.”

Sherlock swallowed, blinking at the twinkling silver Christmas tree at the corner of his desk, the red plastic baubles swaying with the vibrations as his foot bounced against the carpet.

With all the publicity _The Guardian_ article had brought in, they weren’t exactly struggling for clients, but one never knew when their fifteen minutes were up, and having royalty on their resume would open the door to a whole different level of clientele.

Then again, if he failed…

“We would, of course, cover all the expenses,” Greg continued in a rush, as if sensing his crumbling resolve. “Air fare for yourself and your staff, and you’d be staying at the castle, so meals would-.”

“Wait,” Sherlock interrupted, his train of thought derailed, “you want me to come to…”

“Galerre,” Greg supplied. “Small country buried in the jigsaw puzzle part of Europe.”

“And you want me to…go there?” Sherlock murmured, pointing from his chest to Greg.

“Well…yes,” Greg replied, shrugging a shoulder. “I assume you’d need to conduct interviews and the like. And meet the prince, of course.”

“I- Well, yes, normally, but I couldn’t possibly leave Irene to-”

“Yes, you could.” The door swung inward, Molly stepping in with a bright smile. “I already asked her.” She then turned to Greg, shrinking into her shoulders as her cheeks darkened. “I was just walking by and heard something about a queen. And then shamelessly eavesdropped,” she muttered, and Greg laughed, lifting a hand and shaking his head.

“It’s alright. You would’ve found out eventually anyway. Saves me telling the story twice.” He smiled, and Molly ventured closer, hands folded over her burgundy pencil skirt.

“We don’t have any new clients scheduled before Christmas, and everything’s pretty much planned for the holiday mixers. Irene can handle anything else that comes up.”

“What about you?”

Molly scoffed, shy demeanor disappearing as she turned to him, planting a hand on her hip. “I’m coming with you.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “You are?”

“Of course,” she chirped, a brilliant grin blossoming across her face. “You’d be lost without me.”

Sherlock huffed, but couldn’t argue, shaking his head instead at his desk. “I-I don’t know, it’s…it’s so close to the holidays, and there’s always a rush in December.”

“I can handle the lonely hearts club.” Irene stepped into the doorway, waggling her fingers at Greg. “Hi, I’m Irene Adler, Sherlock’s partner.”

“Oh,” Greg murmured, frowning between them, and Irene laughed, throwing her head back as she moved farther into the room.

“ _Business_ partner,” she added, extending a hand down toward him, and Greg smiled, standing up to greet her. “We’re both very, _very_ gay.”

“Irene.”

“What?” she crooned as Greg laughed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing back his chair to stand as well.

“Well, Mr. Lestrade,” he sighed, moving around his desk, “it seems I am overruled.” He smiled, extending a hand, Greg’s eyes lighting up like Carnaby Street. “You have yourself a matchmaker.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We arrive in Galerre and some rando named John shows up but he's probably not important.......

The flight was only a couple hours long, but any time in first class was time well spent, and the crown of Galerre apparently spared no expense, Molly nibbling warm cashews and sipping champagne like a giddy schoolgirl with discriminating tastes right up until the call to return your seat backs to their upright position rang through the cabin.

The airport was small, only the third in the country—if Molly’s researched was to be believed—and freshly constructed to support the growing population. It was clean and modern, exposed metal beams and walls of glass juxtaposed with elaborate holiday displays dripping tradition, holly garlands and bejeweled trees springing from every corner. They followed the signs to baggage claim, descending an escalator to find a familiar face waiting for them, Molly’s eyes lighting up and fingers smoothing her hair as she spotted Greg waving wildly from beside a baggage trolley.

Sherlock ducked his face, adjusting his grip on his soft leather briefcase as he coughed around a chuckle, Molly giving his ankle a sharp kick with a toe of the heels she’d changed into when they landed.

“Welcome!” he greeted as they reached the ground floor, nodding to Sherlock as he took Molly’s roller bag from her hand, grin crinkling his eyes as it stretched. “How was your flight?” he asked, barely glancing at Sherlock to include him in the question, so he only hummed, letting them walk ahead toward the baggage carousel.

“It was _wonderful_!” Molly gushed, and Sherlock frowned at the back of her head, wondering if he should’ve stopped her a champagne short. “I’ve never flown first class before.”

“Well, I’m glad we could oblige,” Greg chuckled, expression softening as Molly beamed up at him, and then seemed to remember the world was still spinning around them, jerking his face forward just in time to avoid clipping a support column with the trolley. He cleared his throat, the hollows of his cheeks darkening, but Molly didn’t appear to have noticed, gazing up with wide-eyed wonder at the red baubles tangled in the glittering gold ribbon spiderwebbing across the ceiling.

“This place,” she breathed, shaking her head in awe. “It’s like stepping into a Christmas card.”

“An airport Christmas card,” Sherlock muttered, Molly glaring at him over her shoulder while Greg only chuckled.

“Galerre takes Christmas _very_ seriously,” he said, rolling to a stop in front of a baggage carousel. “It’s always been a time of celebration, what with the royal engagements and all. Lornes—that’s the capital—has a festival that runs from the first Monday of December all the way to New Year’s. We’ll be driving right through some of the setup; it’s really quite impressive.”

“Oh, a festival!” Molly chirped, practically bouncing on her heels in excitement. “That sounds fun, doesn’t it, Sherlock?”

He opened his mouth, but wasn’t given time to reply, Molly barreling ahead on his behalf.

“Is that close to the castle?”

“Oh, yes,” Greg said, pausing a moment as the alarm on the carousel buzzed, announcing its intent to jar to life. “The castle is just outside the capital. Most of the staff live there with their families rather than stay on the grounds. Which reminds me.” He turned to Molly, leaning his forearm on the trolley, and Sherlock moved past him to watch for their bags as the first thumps of luggage hit the metal band. “The Queen insisted Sherlock stay at the castle so he could keep them apprised of his progress and spend more time with the prince”—he turned a smile to Sherlock—“but you have the option to stay in town, if you would like. I thought you might prefer that.” He shifted his weight between his feet uncertainly, shoulders slumped, but swiftly straightened as Molly gasped with delight.

“That sounds _amazing_! Right in the heart of the festival.” Her gaze grew distant and dreamy, a contented sigh humming through her pink lips. “But, what about you?” she muttered, rattling her head as she came out of the trance, and Sherlock shrugged, looking over his shoulder to keep one eye on the rotating luggage.

“What about me?”

“Well, won’t you need me close by?” she presumed, but Sherlock shook his head, a plan fully formed in his mind before Greg had even finished explaining the offer.

“I can always call. And we can meet once every few days or so to go over everything.”

“You never call,” Molly murmured, a fond glint in her eyes that normally meant he was getting a hug whether he liked it or not, but the baggage trolley was between them, so she merely reached a hand out to drop an affectionate squeeze to his wrist. “Well, if you’re foolish enough to think you can live without me,” she teased, wrinkling her nose at his rolling his eyes before looking back to Greg, “I would prefer to stay in town, I think.”

“Excellent!” Greg chirped, the answer to where he lived written all over his glowing face. “I had a hotel holding a room for you—lovely suite overlooking the mountains and the festival square. I’ll just give them a ring and let them know we’re headed that way, and then call the castle, tell them you’ve arrived. You’ll be alright with your bags?” he asked, mobile half out of his pocket, but Molly swatted the worry away with a wave of her hand.

“We’ll be fine; go ahead,” she assured, and Greg nodded in temporary parting, tapping at his mobile as he made his way out of the throng of impatient travelers. Molly watched him go, a dewy smile on her face, Sherlock staring at her with a climbing brow when he noticed a bright yellow suitcase in the corner of his eye.

“Molly,” he muttered, lunging down to grab her largest piece of luggage before it escaped his reach, smiling in false apology to the older man he had to reach in front of. He hefted it up by the side handle, the whole cart rattling when it landed, Molly grabbing the slightly smaller bag following close behind it, yellow polka dots to match its lurid mother. He huffed, swatting his hands together and staring down at the already full trolley. “What do you have in there, bricks?”

“Shoes,” Molly replied, scratching at a scuff on the bottom of her smaller suitcase. “I didn’t know what to expect on a trip to a _castle_ , so I brought something for everything.”

“Snow shoeing?” Sherlock muttered, intending to mock, but Molly proudly lifted her chin.

“Parka, boots, _and_ thermal leggings.” She patted the top of her large suitcase for emphasis, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head as he spotted his own luggage rumbling toward them.

“Have anything for a romantic dinner for two?” he asked, pulling his blue shell suitcase from the carousel and plopping it down next to his feet, Molly’s face a beacon of pink when he looked up.

“It’s not- He’s just being nice,” she murmured, twisting at the ends of her light brown hair, a shy smile pulling at the corners of her lips as Sherlock gave her a withering look. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, grabbing the handle of the trolley, but her dramatic storm-out was ruined by a stiff wheel, the trolley too heavy for her to spin it around.

“Please, let me.” Greg swept back in to her side, placing gentle fingers over hers on the plastic handle, both of them freezing a moment before Molly slid away, tucking her hair behind her ears and going from pink to red as Greg took over the steering. He cleared his throat, neck looking a little sunburned all of a sudden. “Follow me,” he said, and started toward one of the exit doors, Molly pointedly looking anywhere but Sherlock’s smirking face.

The drive to Lornes was just under an hour, but passed quickly enough. Sherlock had forfeited the front seat on the guise of wanting to stretch his legs, which left Molly and Greg to chat amicably while his attention drifted in and out of the window, pulled back when Greg would point out some landmark or another, but mostly he was left to the tangle of his thoughts.

He hadn’t done much research in the day afforded to him before he’d been swept off to foreign climes—or, rather, hadn’t read much of what Molly had provided for him—preferring to get his impressions firsthand so as to form as pure an opinion as possible, but a few bits of advance information had been necessary.

Galerre was a small country, the kind of place one only really heard of if they were attempting to sweep the geography section of pub quiz. It was comprised mainly of mountains covered in snow and valleys covered in sheep, but the castle and capital city were nestled in the former, the landscape streaking by beyond the glass an endless sea of towering pines and brush strokes of glittering white sweeping up the rocky slopes. The road was winding and climbing, pressure building behind his ears as a gentle snow began to fall, but it dissipated as they started down the other side, and Sherlock’s internal clock informed him time was nearly up as a restless energy started to fill his extremities, his fingers strumming against his knee.

“There it is,” Greg said, a fond familiarity in his voice, and Sherlock leaned forward to look out the front.

The trees had cleared as they rounded a bend in the road, exposing a city lying in a sheltered valley below, but Greg was drawing their eyes up the mountain, and he tilted his head, bending down to peer out the top of the windshield.

A massive castle stood on the hillside, the beige-gray stone and slanted navy roof seeming carved from the mountain itself, innumerable windows glittering in the afternoon sun to wink down at the village below.

Sherlock hadn’t given much thought to what he was expecting, but the jolt in his stomach told him it had not been this, and he pressed himself to the window as they continued the turn. He stared up at the towering turrets and twisting spires, delicate details blending seamlessly with the castle’s fortress roots, and then the image was gone, obscured by trees as they rounded another bend on the winding way down to the city, and he found himself feeling strangely bereft, pulling his fingers away from the glass without realizing they’d reached for it.

“You can see the castle from the city,” Greg said, smiling at Molly, who had practically crawled across the console to catch every last glimpse of the view, and she retreated back to her seat, chuckling nervously. “It’s actually a tradition that, when a couple gets engaged at the Christmas Eve ball, they light the lamp in the old castle bell tower to announce it to the townspeople. They used to take to the streets with candles and lanterns, but now they just turn on every light in the city.” He smiled out at the road ahead, Sherlock watching his eyes grow warm in the rearview mirror. “It’s really quite beautiful. But you’ll get to see it, I suppose,” he said, meeting Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror. “If we do our jobs right.”

Sherlock chuckled, shifting in his seat, adjusting his long blue scarf as it got caught under his thigh. “We haven’t failed yet. Though, we do normally have more time,” he admitted, shrugging a shoulder.

Greg sighed, the car slowing as they approached a stop sign. “I _am_ sorry about that,” he said, shaking his head and making a slow right turn. “Charles only recently brought the law to parliament’s attention. Though I suspect he’s been sitting on it for some time.”

“Charles?” Molly pressed, and Greg nodded, more cars appearing on the road with them as they approached town.

“Charles Magnussen, the late king’s cousin. He’s next in the line of succession after His Highness.”

“And you…don’t like him?”

Greg cleared his throat, straightening up in his seat. “It’s not my place to say,” he muttered, a corner of his mouth lifting at Molly, “but I say he’s an arse anyway.”

Molly laughed, and then turned to the window, her forehead nearly bouncing against the glass as the town suddenly came up on them. “Wow,” she said, the word fogging the glass in front of her lips, which curled into a brilliant smile that she turned over her shoulder to share with Greg.

He beamed back at her like she hung the moon, all the stars it reflected caught in his eyes, and the scene might have made Sherlock nauseous if he didn’t know how overdue Molly was for a decent guy, and if he wasn’t distracted by the scene the car was crawling past.

Lornes was bustling—or what Sherlock assumed was their version of it—with activity, people talking and laughing as they milled through the patterned brick courtyard and surrounding cobblestone streets. Carts and kiosks in various states of setup littered the square under a canopy of twinkle lights, bright ribbons and glittering garlands bursting from boxes or already wrapped around lampposts, with small bunches of what looked to be paper flowers tucked into every bare corner and crevice. The far end of the courtyard was overtaken by an ice rink, which was already open for business, a few couples and young families wobbling over the polished surface, and a gargantuan tree overlooked it all just beyond, a small army of people surrounding it on ladders as baubles as big as Sherlock’s head were hoisted up onto the boughs. The buildings were a mix of old and new, but a traditional style had been held to, brick and stone with wooden accents, Christmas bleeding from every windowsill and doorway with deep green wreaths and red poinsettias. There was snow piled up along the edges of the street, evidence of a recent storm, but none still lingering on the rooftops or window boxes, which was just as well, in Sherlock’s mind, or he would have been absolutely convinced he’d been tricked onto a film set.

Not that his current predicament was much more believable, the car stopping in front of the towering face of a grand, historic hotel on the corner of the courtyard to further the point, an army of valets descending on them and sweeping open the doors with a tip of their black hats.

“Sir Lestrade,” the one who appeared to be in charge greeted, bowing slightly as Greg stepped out, and Molly whipped her head over her shoulder.

“Sir!?” she hissed, but Sherlock could only shrug, having seen just as much of this movie as she had and unable to answer any questions.

“Miss Hooper,” the man at Molly’s door said, if he could be called a man, looking barely old enough to drive at all let alone be a valet. “Allow me.” He dropped a hand down to her, Molly blushing clear down to her fingertips as she slid to the end of her seat, placing her hand in the man’s for the briefest of seconds as she rushed to rise from the car.

“Mr. Holmes,” the valet at his door said, and Sherlock grabbed his briefcase off the floor of the car and slid his legs out into the cold air before a similar offer was presented to him.

“Thank you,” he said, the man bowing as he closed the door, and then started briskly back toward the hotel, Sherlock grateful to be spared polite small talk neither of them wanted to pretend to be interested in.

“The blue one stays, Reggie,” Greg was saying, pointing toward the boot of the car as yet another man—Reggie, apparently—began unloading the luggage. “And I don’t need the car checked either, if it’s okay staying here a few minutes. I’m just going to run in and get Molly settled.”

“I’d prefer to move it, if it’s alright with you, sir,” Reggie said, his words straining as he hoisted Molly’s cement block of a suitcase onto the pavement. “We have a bus due to arrive soon.”

“Fair enough,” Greg replied, taking the handles of Molly’s suitcases as Reggie pulled them up. “I’ll see you at the desk when we’re done.”

Reggie smiled, bowing in self-dismissal, and Greg walked the luggage back to them with a grin.

“Shall we?” he cajoled, jerking his head toward the door, and Sherlock let out a hesitant hum.

“I think I’d rather stretch my legs a bit. Get a closer looked at the…festivities,” he muttered, waving a hand back at the courtyard, intending on doing no such thing, but it was the easiest excuse to give the pair of them enough privacy to set up a date already.

“Oh. Alright,” Greg said, looking beyond him to sweep the center square. “How about I text you when I’m coming back down to the lobby? We can meet out here.”

Sherlock nodded, planning to stray only as far as the nearest source of caffeine, and then smirked, hoisting his bag up higher onto his shoulder. “It’s a date,” he chirped, flicking a two-finger salute to his forehead and spinning on a heel, the slack-jawed look on Molly’s face keeping him warm as he started into the wind toward a cafe he’d seen along the way.

The streets were crowded, but nothing that would scare a Londoner, and Sherlock walked slow, his hands in his pockets as he listened to snippets of passing conversations—mostly English and French, but he caught the odd phrase in German too. Nobody gave him a second look, only a polite smile or nod as he passed, seeming accustomed to unfamiliar faces, or perhaps this was just the sort of place where no one was a stranger, a feeling Sherlock found he didn’t mind.

He’d grown up being shuffled between the manor and boarding schools, his father’s work keeping him away from home and his mother unable to manage them after she got sick, and then, after she died, he never wanted to go home, the hollow halls haunted with the ghost of her and the family they once were. He’d stayed at school for every break he could from the age of nine, only back at the manor for summers with his brother and the never-the-same staff, his father still on a plane more than he was in his own home. And then he was gone too, a sudden heart attack in his top-floor office at the law firm.

It had just been him and Mycroft after that, though they’d seen less of one another after Sherlock moved to London for university, despite Mycroft’s work being there as well. Life had a way of getting away from you, he supposed, but he never really had the time to think about it in the midst of the swirling tornado that was London. He loved London, loved the noise and the lights and the ever-changing backdrop against which his life played out, but that life had never afforded him the opportunity to consider anything else, and, now, wandering Lornes’ vibrant but still peaceful streets, he wondered for the first time if he’d missed out on something.

A brisk gust of wind whipped down from the rooftops, rustling the large red bow adorning the nearest lamppost, and Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing in the sharp air that whispered a promise of snow.

And then fell flat on his arse, hit in the shoulder by what felt like a lorry, his feet catching a patch of ice as he tried to regain his balance and flying out from under him.

“Oh, shit, are you alright!?” It was a man’s voice, and men’s shoes, wide black trainers topped with dark jeans, which was all Sherlock could see from his current position lying in the _dirt_. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t see you.”

Sherlock looked up, about to say the dark aviators the man was wearing in indirect sunlight like some kind of C-list celebrity probably didn’t help with that, when he took them off, Sherlock’s jaw left hanging in the wind as he gaped.

The man was a little older than Sherlock, early-thirties at the most, a rugged swath of scruff over his jaw keeping him from looking like an undergrad. He was wearing a black leather jacket zipped halfway over a red jumper, a knit gray hat slouching over his head, but Sherlock could see strands of blond hair poking out beneath the wool, pressed to his forehead and pointing down to the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

“Are you hurt?” the man asked, the words drowsy as they waded through Sherlock’s trance, and he blinked, giving his head a small rattle and tearing his gaze away.

“I- No,” he said, brushing down his jumper to compose himself before lifting his chin. “I’m- I’m fine.”

The man stretched down an arm, chuckling to himself as he shook his head. “I’m really _so_ sorry, I-I should’ve been paying more attention.”

Sherlock smiled, taking his—strong, soft, warm—hand and letting himself be hoisted up to standing, stumbling forward a bit with the momentum, the man stronger than he looked.

“I was just-” The man trailed off, glancing back down the alley he’d apparently popped out of before looking to the pavement. “Oh,” he muttered, bending down to pick up a folder Sherlock hadn’t noticed slipping out of his briefcase. A chuckle puffed out of him as he turned it over, reading the logo on the front. “‘The Science of Attraction’?” he read, frowning at Sherlock as he handed it across.

“Er…yeah.” He took the folder, stuffing it back into his briefcase, tilting the opening away so as not to accidentally reveal any further contents. “It’s…where I work.”

“What is it?” the man asked, something in his tone grating over Sherlock’s skin, a subtle condescension that set his teeth on edge.

He straightened his spine, firming the set of his shoulders. “It’s a matchmaking agency.”

The man’s face pinched in confusion, his head tipping. “Matchmaking? Like one of those…dating app things?”

Sherlock smiled, tight and polite. “No,” he muttered, “not an app.”

“Oh. Well, how does that work then?” the man asked, folding his arms over his chest, but the interest seemed more genuine, so Sherlock swallowed his unease and gave the usual layman’s spiel.

“People come in for a series of interviews and personality tests, and we run algorithms on their social media. We feed all of that into our system, along with our personal notes and recommendations, and”—he shrugged, bag bouncing against his side—“see who matches up.”

The man snorted, and Sherlock’s polite smile fell to shatter against his shoes. “And that works?”

Sherlock felt the edges of his lips sharpen to points. “Our 100% success rate would suggest as much.”

“Well, yeah,” the man said, shrugging a shoulder, “but they’re all expecting to find someone, aren’t they? They’ve kind of already bought into the whole soulmate thing.”

Sherlock blinked, incredulous, not entirely sure he wasn’t still lying unconscious on the sidewalk and trapped in a nightmare, and then his faculties fell back into place, the cold calm of righteous fury settling in his chest. “Yes, well, we can’t all be blessed with your naturally _charming_ demeanor,” he snipped, narrowing his eyes, and the man frowned, somehow seeming surprised at the reaction. “If you’ll excuse me,” he muttered, starting around the man, but the stranger stepped into his path, holding out an arm to halt him.

“Wait, I-I didn’t mean-”

“Look, Mr. …?” Sherlock paused expectantly, the man lowering his arm as his lips flapped.

“John,” he finally said, dropping his voice as his gaze swept the pavement. “My name’s John.”

Sherlock quirked a brow, this interaction turning stranger by the minute. “Well, _John_ ,” he stressed, barely restraining his eyes from rolling, “I hate to be the one to burst your cynical bubble, but your ‘there are no happy endings’ mentality is hardly as unique as you think it is, so why don’t you go back to whatever artisanal coffee shop you crawled out of, slip on your non-prescription glasses, and continue working on that dark _Alice in Wonderland_ you think is going to change the landscape of literature as we know it and spare the general populace your stale opinions.”

John’s mouth had dropped open at some point in the middle, and he left it there, every bit the dry-drowning fish as his eyes blinked dazedly, shoulders slack and slouched.

“Now,” Sherlock said with a smile, shifting the strap of his bag on his shoulder and brushing some lingering dirt off the side of his wool trench coat, “you’ll excuse me.” He then continued down the street, head held high, a satisfied smirk curving his mouth as he felt the burn of eyes on the back of his neck.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Instagram and Twitter @consultingdr221 and on Tumblr at prettysherlocksoldier <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! Here's hoping 2019 will be softer to us all <3

The cafe was small, but not crowded, and he was able to get his large Christmas roast—the barista had been persuasive and he’d been in too bright of a mood to resist—and sit down at the window table within five minutes of walking in, pulling his mobile out to sit face-up in front of him as he waited for Greg’s text. He could see the holiday preparations continuing in the square, people forming human chains to unload strands of lights and tinsel for the tree, feeding them up the ladders and carefully draping them around like a slow-motion maypole. People walked along the pavement below his window, shopping bags hanging from their hands as they bowed their heads against the odd gust of wind, fringed edges of scarves caught up to twist behind them. His coffee was nearly finished when his phone hummed against the wood, and he quickly swallowed down the rest of it, tossing the cup in the recycling bin on his way out, a light snow beginning to flutter down from the gray sky as he made his quick way back to the hotel.

Greg was already outside when he arrived, rubbing his hands together against the cold as he waited beside the valet stand. He lifted one of those hands when he saw Sherlock approaching, waving it in the air, his whole body seeming to shake with the effort, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile to himself, Greg’s enthusiasm unavoidably contagious. “They’re just pulling the car around,” he explained, waving a hand toward the circle drive, and Sherlock nodded, adjusting his scarf to cover his chin.

“Molly get settled in alright?” he asked, Greg’s face cracking with a grin at the very mention of her, and Sherlock shook his head internally.

The poor sod was already lost.

“Yes, she loved her room. But I told her, if she changes her mind, there’s plenty of room up at the castle.”

“I doubt she’ll be changing her mind,” Sherlock said, turning as the car swept up in front of them. “Molly’s always been one to know what she wants.” He saw Greg color out of the corner of his eye, but feigned distraction, moving toward the car as the valet popped out of the driver seat.

In Molly’s absence, he took the passenger seat, settling his bag at his feet and smiling at the valets who waved them off, staring out the window as they moved out into the street, feeling Greg working up to saying something in the straining silence.

“So,” he muttered, clearing his throat as Sherlock turned expectantly, “what do you think of our city so far?”

Sherlock smiled, sure that wasn’t the line of questioning that had Greg’s neck turning vermilion. “I didn’t see very much, but the coffee was excellent.”

Greg laughed, leaning forward to look around Sherlock at a stop sign before turning onto a road that climbed up into the trees covering the base of the mountain in front of them. “I’ll take it. Something tells me you’re not one to give praise lightly.”

“I’m rarely one to give it at all,” he admitted, mouth quirking at Greg’s boisterous laugh. “But…it is very…peaceful.”

“Is that Londoner for ‘dull’?” Greg teased, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head.

“No. It’s…refreshing, I suppose.” He shrugged, not entirely sure what he meant himself, but Greg seemed contented, smiling into the falling silence as they continued their ascent through the trees.

“Molly was telling me you two started the business in university?” he asked after a time, and Sherlock could feel a shift in the air, like the space within the cabin of the car was shrinking as Greg inched toward his point.

He hummed in the affirmative, watching a swallow roll down the front of Greg’s throat.

“So…you two have known one another a long time,” he presumed, and Sherlock hummed again, turning toward him to nod.

“Since undergrad. She was a year behind me; we had a class together her second year.”

“And then you moved in together for graduate school?”

Sherlock nodded again. “Well, for me. It was her last year of undergrad.”

Greg nodded, frowning at the road ahead, his inner turmoil written in the lines of his brow, and Sherlock took pity, smiling to himself and the trees beyond the window glass.

“She’s not seeing anyone,” he said, the car weaving a little to the right as Greg spun his neck to look at him. Sherlock met his eyes, a slow smirk crawling up his face. “That is what you were getting at, isn’t it?”

Greg opened his mouth, a denial written on his face, and then seemed to think better of it, closing his lips and shaking his head at the windshield as a blush tinted his cheeks. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he murmured, flashing a sidelong smile. “This is your area of expertise.”

“Molly or matchmaking?”

“Both, I guess,” Greg laughed, slowing down for the sharp mountain curves. “Well, let’s have it then,” he sighed, lifting a hand off the wheel to roll it in the air when Sherlock frowned. “Ya know, the whole ‘If you hurt her, I’ll break your neck’ bit. Just assume get that awkwardness out of the way before dinner tonight.”

“You’re taking her to dinner?”

Greg shook his head. “No, she’s coming up to the castle. The queen wanted everyone together for the first night, introductions and all that. I won’t even be there,” he said, the corners of his lips turning down in disappointment. “I’ll be eating with the staff. But I told her I’d take her back after and we could grab a drink or something if she wasn’t too tired.”

“Sounds nice.”

“So?” Greg prompted, lifting his brows at him, shoulders setting in a defensive posture. “How ‘bout it?”

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head between Greg and the road ahead. “You’re right. This is my area of expertise. Which is why I know I don’t need to give you a speech. Not that I would anyway,” he amended, shrugging a shoulder, “because it’s 2018; women can break their own necks now.” He paused, letting Greg snort through a chuckle, the atmospheric pressure in the car decreasing. “But…in my line of work, you get good at reading people. Fast,” he added with a pointed dip of his head. “She likes you, I’m fairly certain you’re not an ax murderer, and, as far as I’m concerned”—he shrugged, letting Greg’s laugh die down—“that’s all I need to know right now.”

Greg’s smile was warm and soft, a foreign fondness in his gaze when it turned to him. “You’re a good friend, Sherlock,” he said, stated, as if reciting a long-accepted truth and not the first person Sherlock had ever heard say such a thing with sincerity.

Uncomfortable at being taken aback, he did what all emotionally stunted adults do in the face of a compliment and laughed, a high chuckle that bounced against the window as he looked out at the thickening snow. “If you have low standards,” he muttered, and Greg just laughed, letting him slide back into his thoughts.

Not a pushy one, Greg. Sherlock was liking him more by the minute.

All told, the drive from the city center to the castle took about twenty minutes, but Sherlock imagined it would have been almost half that if not for the near-blinding snowstorm, the castle security gate seeming to spring from nowhere out of the curtain of white.

Greg spoke briefly to one of the guards in French, Sherlock taking out his passport when he overheard it being discussed, the guard disappearing into his booth a moment to scan it in case he popped up on some watch list or broke a priceless royal-family heirloom they needed to bill him for. He leaned forward as they waited, squinting into the snow to snatch some glimpse of the castle he knew lay beyond, but the white sheet was impenetrable to his eyes, the tall black fence stretching out from either side of the manned gate the only thing he could discern from that distance.

The guard reappeared after a couple minutes with his passport, approving of Sherlock with a nod and muttered affirmative he didn’t catch before waving them on, Greg lifting an arm out the window to thank him by name—Arnaud, Sherlock thought it was—before starting slowly through the opening gate.

As loath as Sherlock was to admit it—and he never would outside of his own mind—it truly was like something out of a movie, the ornate black gate swinging open to admit them, though whether Pemberley or Manderley awaited him remained to be seen. The drive was straight and flanked with tall trees, their branches reaching together to form a canopy above them, barren now apart from the building snow, but Sherlock imagined they were magnificent in the warmer months, a dappled green shelter from the spring rain and summer sun. He was so busy staring up at them, he didn’t notice when the car started to turn, his chin dropping to see an empty bronze fountain in the center of a cobbled circle drive, and then his gaze moved past it, eyes threatening to leap from his head and stick to the grand castle facade.

It could only have been the front entrance, a grand staircase—short, with wide steps and ornate iron railings wrapped in real pine garland—leading to white double doors, each adorned with a wreath two of him could fit in. The face was all stone, the same pale blend of gray and brown he’d seen through the trees before, but the bricks were massive up close, the windows even more numerous than he’d imagined, two bay windows flanking the front door each bedecked with bright red curtains pulled back to reveal the twin Christmas trees decorated within. The trees in the symmetrical landscaping surrounding the entry staircase were smaller, dressed tastefully in simple white lights, and every window stretching up the three stories in front of him had a bundle of holly hanging from the center of its ledge, pops of green and red against the neutral stone.

He remembered his tiny Christmas tree in his office in London and almost laughed, thinking back on how Molly had had to sneak even that much Christmas spirit into his space, and here he was stepping into a holiday card. And that was just the _outside_ , Sherlock bracing himself for what suddenly seemed like the very real possibility there would be a children’s choir in the foyer as he stepped out of the car after Greg, shouldering his bag and bracing an elbow on the top of the car door.

“She’s something, isn’t she?” Greg said softly at his side, smiling at his reaction, Sherlock collecting himself enough to quirk a brow.

“She?” he asked, and Greg nodded, beckoning him forward as he closed the car door and moved to the boot.

“Castle Lornesse. The town’s named after her, sprung up around her centuries ago, mostly just staff at first. This has always been the primary residence”—he waved a hand up at the castle—“so, naturally, when parliament was established, they set up shop nearby. Can’t let those monarchs run about unsupervised,” he chuckled, and Sherlock sniffed, familiar enough with _that_ , at least. “She all but burnt to the ground in the early 1800s, but most of the stone was either still standing or salvaged for the rebuild. Family stayed in their summer palace in Marliera during construction; it’s right along the southern border. Just a quick cut through Italy to the sea. It’s not nearly as grand as this”—he nodded up at Lornesse as he hoisted Sherlock’s bag out of the boot, closing it behind him—“but it’s no beach house either.”

“I can imagine,” Sherlock mused, craning his neck back to take in the entirety of it, snatches of turrets and spires visible over the horizon of the front roofline, but his eyes were quickly drawn down as the front doors swept open, revealing a woman who was either very petite or the doors were even taller than they looked from where he stood.

She was dressed in a deep purple skirt and blazer, a creme tie-blouse buttoned up to her neck, the ends of the bow sweeping across her neck in the wind. Her hair was gray, but styled impeccably, likely the reason she was hiding within the cove of the entryway, though it could just as easily have been the emerald heels on her feet, nothing near the towering sculptures Irene teetered on all day, but not meant for traversing snow and ice either.

“Gregory, what on _earth_ are you doing?” she huffed in a distinctly English accent—and manner— wrapping her arms over her chest in a tight hug as she bounced on her soles. “The man’s going to catch his death, and _then_ where will we be?”

Greg chuckled, though it would never carry, beaming at the woman when he looked up from Sherlock’s bag. “Coming, Mrs. Hudson,” he sang, and she rolled her eyes, her lips shifting with mutterings Sherlock could only imagine.

“Today, dear, would be preferable,” Mrs. Hudson snapped before turning on the ball of her foot and stomping back through the door, closing them behind her with a pointed _thud_.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Greg explained as he passed, bobbing his head in beckoning as he began hauling Sherlock’s suitcase up the stairs. “House manager and chief whip-cracker.”

Sherlock laughed, but there was no time to reply, the door sweeping open as they reached the top of the stairs, presenting a tall man in a slim black suit, his white shirt crowned with a black bow tie and disapproving expression.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted none too warmly, stepping aside and inclining his head as he waved them in. “Mr. Lestrade. Mr. Holmes.” He added individual nods to each of them before turning his focus to Sherlock. “I’m Philip Anderson, head butler here at Lornesse. May I take your coat up to your room with your bags?” He held out his hands expectantly, Sherlock looking between his palms and the end of his rat-like nose.

“Er…yes. Thank you,” he added, lowering his briefcase to his feet and making to slide his arms out of his sleeves, but Philip was already behind him, holding his coat and scarf and reaching for his briefcase before Sherlock caught up. “Actually,” he spluttered, snatching the bag from the floor and tucking it into his chest, “I-I’d like to hold onto this. If you don’t mind.”

Anderson retracted his arm, eyeing him suspiciously a long moment before bowing his head. “As you wish, sir. I will see the rest of your belongings to your room.”

“Right. Thank you, Philip.”

“Please, sir, call me Anderson.”

Sherlock smiled as he nodded, an olive branch of a gesture that was not returned. “Thank you, Anderson,” he amended, his tone falling flat as he gave that endeavor up as a lost cause, but it was hard to feel wrong-footed by the initial show of indifference when Mrs. Hudson was beaming like he was the second coming, stepping out of a small cluster of people all dressed in a similar black-and-white fashion.

“Don’t worry about him,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose and jerking a thumb over her shoulder to where Anderson was ascending the stairs. “He’s probably got splinters in his tongue with how far that stick is up his- Well, you know.”

Sherlock laughed, enamored of her immediately, his affection only growing as she flashed him a devilish wink.

“Mrs. Hudson,” she introduced, extending a hand, all ten fingers wrapping around the handshake as he gripped her fragile hand in his own. “House manager. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I couldn’t even _begin_ to thank you for coming all this way on such short notice, and at _Christmas_ , no less! I do hope your family isn’t missing you too dreadfully.”

“Sherlock, please,” he insisted as she dropped his hand, folding her fingers over her skirt with a nod. “It’s an honor, truly. And, no,” he muttered, shaking his head down at the floor. “I don’t have much family to speak of, and we had no plans over the holiday.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson murmured, head tilting with a frown, a glint sparking in her eyes and making her look twenty years younger and ten times more dangerous, “so…you’re not married, then?”

Sherlock blinked, lips flapping down at the deceptively disarming woman, nonsensical sounds wobbling out of his throat before Greg swept in to the rescue.

“Let the man at least get past the foyer before you start meddling in his personal life,” he said, a jab Mrs. Hudson seemed immune or accustomed to, sneering at Greg before rolling her eyes and turning back toward the patient group of strangers.

“Fine. No good conversation can be had without a cuppa anyway. Let me introduce you to the rest of the staff.” She stopped at the head of the line, pointing at everyone in turn. “This is Benjamin Dimmock.”

A man a little younger than Sherlock stepped forward, bowing his head with a shy smile.

“He will be your personal butler throughout your stay here at Lornesse. Anything you need, Dimmock can find it or find me,” Mrs. Hudson explained, and Sherlock nodded at the man, stepping forward and holding out a hand, Dimmock blinking down at it a moment as if not quite sure what to do with the gesture.

“Nice to meet you…” he hesitated, trailing off with a question, and Dimmock chuckled, reaching forward to bob Sherlock’s hand in a firm shake.

“Ben’s fine,” he said, and Sherlock nodded, stepping down the line for the next introduction.

The staff wasn’t large, though Mrs. Hudson explained a lot of people he would see coming and going were temporary help brought on in preparation for the Christmas ball, and the meet-and-greet passed quickly, Sherlock exchanging handshakes and polite smiles with Sally Donovan—the head chef—and Mrs. Turner—the queen’s lady-in-waiting.

“Mike Stamford, the prince’s assistant, will be arriving with him later this evening; we’ll introduce you then. Princess Harriet and her lady-in-waiting, Clara Barden, won’t be here until later in the month. And you’ve already met our captain of the guard.” She gestured toward Greg, who flicked a two-finger salute and a wink. “Everyone else you’ll pick up along the way. Now, come, come,” she urged, clapping her hands together before looping her arm around his elbow and guiding him toward the polished wood staircase. “I’ll give you the tour before showing you to your room. Lestrade has hogged you long enough.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see Greg laughing, not helping him in the least, and then he shrugged with a farewell wave of his hand.

“See ya after dinner,” he called, and Sherlock was left at the mercy of Mrs. Hudson and her iron grip.

The castle was just as grand on the inside, but less austere, a warmth emanating from the stained wood details, plush rugs, roaring fires, and Christmas bursting from every flat surface or hook. The foyer was an alternating starburst of black and white marble, but the remainder of the castle was mostly hardwood with the exception of the bustling chef’s kitchen—which he doubted he would ever find again—bathrooms, and the grand ballroom, where ornate golden chandeliers reflected on pale swirls of marble, the curved back wall of the room entirely glass to overlook the twinkling town and towering mountains, the world seeming to stretch on forever from their gilded perch.

Just down the corridor was the library in what appeared to be an intentional study in contrasts, bookshelves stacked to the ceiling with everything from ancient leather volumes to tattered paperback romances—“The princess has…particular tastes,” Mrs. Hudson muttered when he squinted at a spine—a Persian rug of muted reds and oranges stretched out beneath a heavy oak desk and soft leather armchairs, the marble fireplace cold in the hearth, but bedecked with sparkling spirals of ribbon and dangling silver snowflakes across the mantel.

The corridors were lined with portraits, Mrs. Hudson stopping here and there to recite a name and interesting anecdote, but Sherlock paid little attention, focused mostly on the posed suits of armor and tapestries, his educated guesses at their age and worth almost horrifying, and he hadn’t exactly _not_ been born with a silver spoon.

She also pointed at a lot of doors, denoting them as these quarters or those quarters, an entire half of the second floor hidden behind an ornate wooden door and dismissed as “The queen’s wing”, and Sherlock assumed that was the forbidden wing of this particular castle in the woods. The third floor was devoted to guests and the prince and princess, the latter duo taking up the far ends while the guest rooms filled up the middle, Mrs. Hudson walking him almost all the way to the end, the second to last door before the remainder of the corridor was walled off with another elaborately carved door.

“That’s the prince’s wing,” she explained, pointing with the heavy key she procured from her pocket. “Stamford will be there”—she waved at the first room outside the door—“and we’ve put you here, so you can be close to the prince.”

“Great,” Sherlock said with a nod, not quite sure it would be, having not met the prince yet, but it seemed the only thing to say, and Mrs. Hudson smiled, twisting the key in the lock and pushing open the door to the room he would be making home for the next twenty-three days.

The door swung into a short corridor with high ceilings, a long narrow table stretching along the wall with a blown glass bowl for keys and a tall vase filled with fresh flowers displayed on the surface. A large mirror hung over it, set in an elaborate gold frame that might have looked ostentatious if not for the bathroom it reflected, and Sherlock popped his head around the doorframe, gaping side to side. It was a full bath, which was surprising enough, but it appeared sculpted from a block of marble, black and gray swirls covering the floor, shower stall, and the top of the vanity. The only thing, apart from the toilet, that wasn’t marble was a deep clawfoot tub set against the wall, Sherlock’s travel-weary muscles begging him to reconsider his “baths are for toddlers and dogs” stance. He caught his own wide eyes in the bathroom mirror, and schooled his expression into something more dignified, stepping back into the corridor and continuing into the main bedroom area, where his jaw promptly plummeted through the floor.

“We call this the velvet room,” Mrs. Hudson said behind him, and Sherlock huffed, the room speaking that much for itself.

There was a plush area rug covering most of the room, a simple pattern flecked with creams and grays so as not to conflict with the deep jewel tones and gold draped across every other surface in the room. A navy velvet chaise was pushed under the wide window, draped with a soft gray throw blanket and single gold-embroidered pillow. A desk was set into the corner, warm wood stained dark, an upholstered chair turned out and waiting for an occupant. The bed took pride of place, a large wooden four-poster with purple velvet curtains tied back with decorative gold rope, the luxurious color bringing out the purples and blues in the lush bedspread, gold thread stitching repeating swirling patterns over the surface like a star-strewn tapestry of the night sky. His bag was open at the end of the bed, the garment bags holding his suits he’d folded inside already hanging in the open closet set into the wall, and Sherlock lowered his briefcase against a leg of the bed with a muted _thump_ before crossing to the window. His room didn’t look out over town, but rather what appeared to be the back of the castle, snow-softened grounds and beautifully patterned gardens—shrunken and brown now, but brimming with potential—stretching out until the mountain started to climb away from them to join its fellows, the white crowns of their dark faces spiking into the sky. Directly below him, he could see a terrace that must lead off the back rooms on the first floor—the drawing room and the library, to his best recollection—made of laid stone and framed with a low wall of carved columns, and Sherlock could almost smell the flowers bursting from the beds come spring, wafting up to meet him as he braced his elbows on the wall and watched the setting sun paint the mountains.

“Do you like it?”

Sherlock smiled out the window, trying to think of an adequate reply, but the view had caught his tongue and robbed him of all eloquence, and he simply nodded, turning to grin at her over his shoulder.

Mrs. Hudson beamed, bowing her head and twisting toward the door. “I’ll give you some time to get settled. Dinner’s at 6. Dimmock will come get you,” she said, and then left him alone, setting the key on the entry table and closing the door softly behind her.

Sherlock swept his eyes around the room again before returning his gaze to the window, watching the heavy snowflakes drift and swirl against the mountain backdrop. “Toto,” he sighed to the walls, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Twitter and Instagram @consultingdr221 and on Tumblr as prettysherlocksoldier


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm grandma-sitting for the next little while and she has some health problems that require a lot of attention, so please forgive me if there's a bit of time before the next update

The flight had been short, but travel always felt like something to be washed off, so Sherlock had taken a shower before getting ready for dinner, sniffing the crown-provided shower gels and hair products like a tourist at a luxury resort before opting for his own tried-and-true toiletries. He did make use of the supplied bathrobe, however, it still too early to start putting on his suit for dinner, so he tied the soft white fabric tight around his waist and started unpacking into the drawers, wardrobe, and desk, trying to organize his files into some semblance of logical order.

Greg had emailed him—and Molly had then printed—detailed files on the prince and prospective princesses, but Sherlock hadn’t looked at them yet, preferring to get a sense of people in the flesh before reading their whole life story on paper. He knew scant details about the prince—30, completed university in London before doing the royal stint and then some in the army, bouncing back and forth between London and political obligations ever since—but nothing more, had even refused to look at a picture, though he had it on Irene’s good authority that the prince was handsome, Molly too kind to be trusted to give a shallow assessment. Sherlock knew his name was John Watson, everyone getting a good laugh at the somewhat backwards _Robin Hood_ reference, as, by all accounts, the prince appeared to be quite the philanthropist, Irene citing off several charities he publicly supported before Sherlock had covered his ears with his hands and tried to swat her away with an elbow.

“Stop it, I need to be able to think he’s a monster!” he’d blustered, and Irene had rolled her eyes and laughed, but did leave him alone, Sherlock spared any further coloring details.

His fingers hovered over the princess dossiers—as Molly had taken to calling them and he now couldn’t get out of his head—tempted to flip open just one now that he was here and it was real, but managed to refrain, distracting himself with the final items left to unpack from his briefcase. He placed his laptop on the desk, weaving the cord around one of the carved wooden legs to plug it in, and plugged his mobile in beside it, thinking it best to leave it to charge until after dinner just in case Siri got it in her head to give him a weather report in the middle of the soup course. There were a few other loose items—headphones, pound notes and coins he wouldn’t be needing, a nutrition bar he didn’t remember packing—that he placed in drawers or the bin, where applicable, before lifting the last object delicately out of the handkerchief he always wrapped it in for protection. The stamped silver pocket watch spun on the end of the fine chain like a hypnotic pendulum, the blue light of fading afternoon reflecting off the shell, and Sherlock watched it a moment before catching sight of the glowing numbers on the clock perched on the desk, cupping the trinket in his hand and placing it on the bed as he went to retrieve one of his suits from the closet.

He settled on black, but not his most formal black, that one preserved for the ball, and paired it with a dark purple shirt, somewhat inspired by his accommodations, he supposed. The soft curls of his brown hair had dried a little more haphazard than normal in the drier, thinner air, and he grabbed a bit of some hair cream Molly had recommended and then just bought for him, taming the ends as best he could. After holding up several options, he settled on a thin black tie with just a touch of sheen to it and simple silver cufflinks, needing to exude confidence without crossing into showy, misdirection the mark of an insecure man. He was just slipping his dress socks into his polished black wingtips when there was a delicate knock on the door, Sherlock stepping toward it before realizing he’d never locked it, feeling a faint rush of panic at the near-miss of being in his robe earlier before calling, “Come in.”

Ben pushed open the door just enough to peek his head in at first, smiling and stepping inside as he found Sherlock’s gaze. “Good evening, Mr. Holmes. If you’re ready, I can show you to the dining room for dinner.”

“Almost,” Sherlock said, striding to the desk to lift the pocket watch from the drawer, clipping it to a belt loop before tucking it into the front right pocket of his trousers, the metal cool against his thigh through the fabric, “and, please, do call me Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” Ben repeated with a nod, waiting for him by the door and closing it behind them. “How are you liking your room so far?” he asked as they descended the stairs, Sherlock paying attention this time to attribute the layout to memory. “Everything in order?”

“It’s very impressive,” he said, noting a right turn at the inexplicable horse head sculpture. “I imagine Molly may reconsider her decision to stay in town when she arrives. Molly is my assistant,” he added, realizing not everyone carried about dossiers on strangers, but Ben’s lazy nod suggested he had known that fact at least.

“Miss Hooper has already arrived. She’s waiting in the sitting room with the other guests until the dining room is opened,” he said as they started down another flight of stairs, passing through the foyer and into a corridor, soft voices sliding along the walls toward them. Ben stopped in front of an open door, Sherlock only able to see a Christmas tree and crackling fire from this angle, bowing his head and waving a hand for him to enter. “Anderson will be arriving shortly to escort you all into the dining room.”

Sherlock must have been a split second too slow at schooling his reaction, Ben grinning at the grimace he felt twitch at a corner of his mouth. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Ben,” he muttered, and the man took his leave with a miniature bow as Sherlock shuffled through the doorway into the room beyond.

Molly and Greg stood in the center of the sofas and chairs spread out in front of the fire, flutes of champagne shifting in their hands as they spoke to a third man Sherlock didn’t recognize, but his attention was pulled away by a server materializing beside him, a tray of bubbling crystal glasses rising into his vision.

“Champagne, sir?” the young woman offered, disappearing as Sherlock lifted a hand and muttered a refusal, but her question had drawn the eyes of the room, Molly rushing toward him as fast as her lace dress would permit her, the brilliant emerald shade drawing the color out of her sparkling eyes.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed as if she hadn’t seen him for months, slinging her free arm around him in a half hug, her black clutch pounding against his spine. She slid her arm away to grab at the elbow of his jacket, her voice low and hurried as Greg and the stranger approached at her back. “Can you believe we’re about to meet a _queen_!?” she hissed, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head, but their fellows were too close for him reply, Molly unfolding away from him to include them in the circle.

Greg nodded in greeting, and then swung an arm out to the newcomer. “Sherlock, this is Mike Stamford, the prince’s assistant.”

The man was shorter than Greg, with a gray suit buttoned over his stomach and dark glasses perched on his nose, a jovial smile splitting his face as he extended a hand. “So this is our matchmaker,” he said, his thick fingers wrapping Sherlock’s hand in a warm grip. “I must say, you’re not what I expected.”

Sherlock chuckled, the remark not unprecedented and Mike’s friendly demeanor eliminating the possibility of subtle condescension. “You thought I’d be taller?” he joked, Mike’s laugh booming around the room as he threw back his head. “No, most people do expect someone older. I was even mistaken for a client’s date once.”

Mike laughed again, roses of red appearing on his cheeks, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle along in spite of it being his own joke. “I can imagine. Mind you, I haven’t had much time to think about it.”

Sherlock frowned, looking to Molly and Greg, the former turning to the latter with a pointed cough.

“Er, yes,” Greg muttered, rocking his heels back into the carpet as he cleared his throat, “you see, I was under the impression that the queen would be informing the prince of your arrival before you…arrived.” He rolled a hand at Sherlock to indicate the obviousness of that sailed ship. “But, it would seem I was…misinformed.”

Sherlock glanced between them, the words piecing together into a picture he didn’t like. “You’re saying…he doesn’t know I’m here?”

Mike and Greg shook their heads in tandem.

“And we’re about to…surprise him. At dinner. With the news that I’m going to be taking over the most important decision of his life?”

The two men looked at one another, Mike shrugging at Greg’s helpless expression.

“Pretty much,” Greg muttered, and Sherlock puffed a disbelieving sigh, pacing toward the fireplace, a hand running through his hair, the styling forgotten.

“What- How does that- Does he even _want_ me here?” He rounded on them, challenging the men with his eyes. “Because love doesn’t really work with unwilling participants.”

“If it’s what the queen wants,” Mike chimed in, stepping forward, “he will do it, absolutely.”

“But it doesn’t _work_ like that,” Sherlock urged, shaking his head. “This isn’t something you can do out of…duty or-or obligation, it-it has to come from”—he rolled his hands over his chest, searching for a word that didn’t drip saccharine sap. “He has to _want_ to do it,” he started over. “People need to be open to the process.”

“Well, I do believe he would…come around,” Greg muttered, wringing his hands together in front of him.

Sherlock scoffed. “In three weeks?” He turned back to the fire, shaking his head down at the flames. “This is- I don’t even-”

The double doors at the opposite end of the sitting room swung open with a sinister creek, a square of light reaching across the floor around a dark silhouette, all of them jumping at the intrusion.

Anderson lifted a brow, casting a scathing look across the group. “Dinner is served,” he announced, stepping back into the dining room, but no one moved, turning to Sherlock with anxious eyes.

“Look, just…give it a chance, alright?” Greg pleaded. “Give it…two weeks.”

“Two days.”

“One week,” he countered, Sherlock rolling his eyes in reluctant acceptance. “If it’s not working by then, we’ll just…make do.” He shrugged hopelessly, shaking his head, and Sherlock glanced at Molly, heaving a heavy sigh at the pity in her eyes.

“One week,” Sherlock confirmed, lifting a finger, and Greg grinned, clapping him on the shoulder while Mike simply smiled.

“Your places are marked,” Anderson snapped from behind them, Greg rolling his eyes and muttering something uncharitable as they all made their way inside to search for their seats.

“I thought you couldn’t stay?” Sherlock asked as he passed Greg’s name card propped up against the gold ring of a napkin draped across a gilded charger.

Greg beamed, pulling Molly’s chair—beside him, of course—out for her. “Her Majesty thought it may be more…comfortable for everyone if myself and Mike were here.”

Mike took his place across the table from them, Sherlock about to round the head chair to join him when he spotted his name beside Greg, directly at the left hand of the queen. He squinted down at the card, sure there’d been some mistake, lifting his head to inquire as such when Mike broke in.

“At the queen’s request. So you can be across from the prince.” He waved a hand to the seat beside him, and Sherlock nodded, in something of a daze as he lowered himself into place, staring down at the light bouncing through the crystal glasses to scatter splotches of rainbows across the delicate creme tablecloth.

Water was poured by a server, and then they all waited, the conversation stilted in the heavy, expectant air. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it seemed an eternity before the doors opened, Anderson sweeping in with his arms stretched wide, Sherlock half surprised when his voice didn’t come out in a bad Transylvanian accent.

“I present”—Greg and Mike stood, Molly and him following their lead—“Her Majesty, Queen Catherine of Galerre.”

As a child, Sherlock had attended a formal charity gala with his mother and father in which a handful of dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, and the like had been in attendance. He remembered very little, but the splendor had made an impression, the food inedible and the noble women cloaked in silken finery and dripping with gems. He supposed, in the back of his mind as he’d perused the castle, he’d been expecting something similar, but the woman who appeared behind Anderson’s fleeing form was the furthest thing from his imagined visage.

She was younger than he’d anticipated, early fifties, at a guess, with silver-streaked auburn hair pinned back in a loose chignon. Her long dress was a rich shade of crimson, but simply cut, tapered three-quarter-length sleeves rising up to a wide neck that skimmed across her collar bones. She was wearing a simple teardrop necklace and earrings, the only other jewelry a pale gold wedding band on her finger, Sherlock not realizing he’d been expecting a crown until there wasn’t one. Her lips were stained a subtle pink around a brilliant smile, her hazel eyes alight with excitement, and she seemed to more glide than walk into the room, spreading her arms wide in greeting.

“Welcome, welcome, everyone,” she said, looking to Molly and Sherlock in particular as she walked along the side of the table. “Mike, dear, it’s been an age.” She stopped beside him, tutting when he made to bow. “Don’t be silly,” she muttered, wrapping him in a tight hug. “This isn’t some stodgy state dinner, and I didn’t change your diapers to be kissed on the hand.”

Mike chuckled, his cheeks turning almost the shade of her dress. “My apologies, Your Majesty. It has indeed been too long.”

The queen smiled, passing him and looking across the table at the rest of them. “Gregory,” she greeted with a nod, rounding the head of the table and her chair to pause in front of Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes,” she greeted, inclining her head to his short bow. “Thank you so much for your agreeing to help us through this…particular frustration.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said, smiling as he nodded again. “It is my honor to be chosen to assist you.”

A soft chuckle hissed through her teeth. “You may yet reconsider that. My son can be…strong-willed.”

“Then I will simply have to be stronger,” he replied, and she laughed, the tinkling sound conjuring an image in Sherlock’s mind of a younger version of the woman before him, beautiful and carefree.

“I don’t doubt you will be, Mr. Holmes.” She dipped her head, and he bowed again as she stepped away, moving to greet Molly, who was white with terror, her hands clasped and shaking in front of her dress.

“You must be Miss Hooper,” she said, Molly lowering into a wobbly curtsy.

“Your Majesty.”

The queen looked to Greg, waving a manicured hand up at him. “Gregory told me he had arranged accommodations for you in town. Tell me, how are the preparations for the Christmas market coming along?”

“Oh, very well, Your Majesty,” Molly chirped, the shaking calming in her limbs now that she had something to talk about. “They had nearly finished decorating the tree when I left.”

“That’s right, the tree lighting is tonight, isn’t it?” the queen questioned, brushing a hand to Greg’s arm when he nodded. “Oh, Greg, you simply _must_ take her to see it,” she urged, a cunning glint in her innocent gaze. “We usually watch from the ballroom,” she added to Molly, “but it’s much better to be down with the crowd, I think. Or, at least, it was when I was younger. Lately, I rarely see the countdown to midnight at all.” She laughed, and Molly chuckled, color crawling back into her cheeks. “We’ll make sure to let you go with plenty of time,” the queen assured, nodding at her and Greg before returning to her spot at the head of the table, Anderson pulling her chair out and tucking it back in beneath her before the rest of them took their seats. “My son has requested we start without him, but shouldn’t be long.” She pulled her arms back so one of the staff waiting along the wall could drape a napkin over her lap, someone appearing to do the same for the rest of them a moment after. “He’s misjudged how verbose the speaker can be. Again,” she muttered, Greg and Mike chuckling while Molly and him could only smile, somewhat left out of the joke. “So,” she urged, folding her hands out to the room at large, “shall we start with wine?”

They were given a choice of a local white or red for the evening, the first course a small hors d’oeuvre of some sort of cheese croquette on a bed of greens, but it was delicious, Sherlock’s stomach reminding him with a vengeance that he hadn’t eaten since the yogurt parfait Molly had forced down his throat at Heathrow. He could hear Greg muttering instructions on utensils to Molly, the queen and Mike chatting about what the prince had been up to over his most recent travels, and Sherlock was content to be left alone for the moment, delicately sipping his white wine, a lightweight under the best of circumstances, let alone on an empty stomach.

“So, Mr. Holmes,” the queen said, turning to him as the hors d’oeuvre plates were being collected, and he swallowed his mouthful of wine, lowering the glass to the tablecloth.

“Sherlock, if it pleases Your Majesty,” he interjected, and she bowed her head with a smile.

“Greg has told me quite a bit about your business, and I’ve read all the articles he’s recommended”—she nodded to the man—“but I must admit to still being rather curious about a few things.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, leaning back as the soup was deposited in front of them. “I would be happy to provide any clarity I can.

“Well, it is perhaps…a difficult question.” She frowned, teeth pressing into her lip in thought. “I understand, as Greg has explained to me, that your primary means of determining compatibility is collecting data from personality tests and social media. But what I’m curious about is…the other part of it.” She leaned forward, tilting her head at him, a crease forming between her brow. “Greg told me you haven’t yet read any of the information we provided about my son and his prospective spouses, that you preferred to meet them first.”

“That’s correct, Your Majesty.”

“I suppose I wonder why. How you determine if two people will be right for one another… _off_ paper, so to speak. What you look for beyond the data.”

Sherlock stared through his wine glass for a time, tapping the stem with a fingertip as he considered his reply. “I’ve often wondered that myself, ma’am,” he mused, turning his eyes up to her. “I know what I’m looking for, of course, but, to put it into words…” He trailed off, shrugging a shoulder. “No matter how thorough a personality test or algorithm, people have a vested interest in being deceptive in my line of work. Not intentionally—not often, anyway,” he added. “They’re simply trying to put forth the best version of themselves. Which is usually not themselves at all.”

The queen chuckled, nodding to encourage him to continue.

“In meeting them, I feel I can get a better idea of their true nature. What people _need_ as opposed to what they posit wanting. They may rate qualities associated with submissiveness and compassion as very desirable in a partner, but if, upon meeting them, I discover they have a…strong personality,” he muttered, polite but pointed, a small chuckle rippling through the room, “I know they need a partner who will challenge them in kind. Anything less would ultimately prove unfulfilling to both parties.”

“Sounds like you’re more of a psychologist than a matchmaker,” the queen teased, and Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, I have my business partner for that. Irene Adler, she’s a clinical psychologist,” he explained. “It’s more about…listening, I suppose. Even when people aren’t speaking, or they’re saying something completely contrary. Which is why I prefer to get to know people, at least somewhat, before looking at their results or, in this case”—he waved a hand at Greg—“reading their files. Any preconceived notions I bring into the situation could harm the final results.”

“Are people ever skeptical of your choices?”

“Almost always,” he replied, and the queen laughed, leaning back to sip at her red wine, “but, as I often tell them, if they were looking in the right places, they would’ve found it by now.”

“I quite like that,” she mused, gaze drifting up toward the ceiling. “It certainly rings true for my late husband and I. I thought he was very posh, you see,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the memory. “He was next in line for the throne and of comparable age, so, naturally, I was in consideration for his queen. But, my god, I thought he was the most _boring_ man I’d ever laid eyes on.” She shook her head, chuckling as the table erupted in laughter. “In time, however, I grew to appreciate him as a friend and value his advice. He was the one who encouraged me to go to America for university, as much as my parents were against it. And, when I came back, bored to tears at the family estate and _no_ idea what I wanted to do with my life, he offered me a volunteer position heading up the Christmas fundraiser for the children’s charity he’d just started. So, I came to live here at the castle and”—she shrugged, folding her hands out at her shoulders—“never left.” She chuckled to herself, expression growing fond and distant as she picked up her spoon, pushing at a mushroom floating on the surface of her soup. “In the end, he wasn’t boring. Just…kind. And a little shy, it would turn out.” She laughed, shaking her head out at the room. “Not the most desirable quality in a royal. But I could do enough talking for the both of us—shocking, I’m sure,” she murmured to Sherlock, who laughed, totally at ease, feeling more like he was having Christmas dinner with friends than essentially at a job interview. “That’s what it’s about in the end, I suppose. Balancing one another out.”

Sherlock dipped a deep nod. “Indeed it is, Your Majesty.”

She smiled, diving into her soup, and the conversation turned to lighter matters, such as trying to remember allergies for the Christmas Eve menu.

“Duchess Lana is allergic to mussels; Lady Eleanor is all shellfish.”

“And Lord Möller doesn’t like seafood of any variety.”

“Well, I hardly care if he doesn’t _like_ it,” Queen Catherine muttered, looking between Mike and Greg. “I didn’t like him spilling scotch on my silk throw pillows, but life is full of such disappointments. Have we figured out where we’re putting him yet?”

“Far away from you, ma’am.”

“Excellent,” she trilled, tipping her glass at Greg as the fish course was presented in front of her, something small with the head still attached.

His plate had just thumped to the table in front of him when the double doors swung open again, all but the queen standing reflexively, though Molly and Sherlock were still a beat behind.

“I present, His Royal Highness-”

“Yes, alright, Anderson,” a voice grumbled from behind the butler, a man sweeping around the doorframe a moment later, his head bowed as he adjusted a cuff link on his dark royal blue suit. “I’m so sorry I’m late, mother, I-” He lifted his face and stalled halfway across the room, Sherlock’s heart freezing in his chest in tandem.

He was cleanshaven, his winter layers replaced with a trim suit and starched white undershirt polished off with a navy-flecked gray tie, but the eyes were unmistakable, ice-blue pools blinking wide when they landed on Sherlock.

Of all the Johns in all the world, he had to walk into the crown prince. Wonderful.

“You,” he breathed, forehead pinching with a frown. “How-” he started, and then the creases in his face smoothed out with dawning comprehension, a blazing gaze falling to the queen. “Mother, what have you done?”

The queen looked between them, rising to standing as she pointed at their chests in turn. “Wait, you…know one another?” She frowned, lowering her fingertips to the edge of the table. “How?”

“We…bumped into one another in town earlier, Your Majesty,” Sherlock explained, turning away from the prince’s narrowed eyes. “Though, I was not aware he was the prince at the time.”

“Clearly,” Prince John scoffed, and Sherlock turned his chin toward him.

“Not that I would’ve done anything differently,” he snipped, and the prince opened his mouth, stepping forward to reply, but seemed to think better of it at the last moment, pressing his lips tight and looking back to the queen.

“Mother, why did you invite a _matchmaker_ to dinner?”

“Well,” the queen said primly, settling back into her chair and folding her hands on the edge of the table, “I would have thought that would be obvious. Sherlock is here to help us select the most suitable bride, since you seem so ambivalent toward the matter.”

“I’m not-”

“Why don’t you sit down?” she interjected, waving a hand at the chair beside her. “Your fish is getting cold.”

Prince John hesitated a moment, looking around the circle of guests, sparing Sherlock a final glare before complying, thanking the servant over his shoulder as his chair was pushed in under him.

Everyone else took their seats after that, a tight silence filling the room, broken only by the gentle clinks and clatters of silverware.

Prince John was staring down at his plate, moving the parsley garnish around with the prongs of his fork, a storm cloud all but literally building over his head as static sparked through the air.

Sherlock took a heavy swig of wine.

Inevitably, the prince slammed his utensils down beside his plate with a snarl, rattling his head. “I don’t _need_ a matchmaker!” he blustered, glancing to Sherlock. “There’s only, what, three or four options? We can decide for ourselves.”

“I will not throw darts on the matter of your happiness,” Queen Catherine snapped, a banked fire blaring to life in her eyes as she drew her spine straight. “If you refuse to put your best interests first, I will do it for you.”

“By importing some…pseudoscience cupid?” Prince John scoffed, waving a hand across the table at him, Sherlock’s lips parting with affront, but the prince barreled on before he could reply. “He’s just throwing darts too! Only difference is, he’s charging through the nose for it.”

“If I may, Your Highness, Mr. Holmes-”

“It’s alright, Greg,” Sherlock interrupted, past caring if social etiquette allowed as much. “I can understand your…skepticism,” he said, turning back to the prince, “but-”

“Skeptical is not the word I’d use,” Prince John muttered, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock before leaning closer to the queen. “Mother, I can handle this myself.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Sherlock snipped, wide blue eyes blinking toward him, “if that were true, I wouldn’t be here.”

A beat of absolute silence followed the statement, Prince John staring at him like he’d sprouted an extra head, and then the queen giggled, covering it with a cough and a dab of her napkin to the corners of her mouth.

“The sauce is quite nice, isn’t it?” she murmured, lifting a flake of fish up onto her fork, and everyone rushed to agree, the conversation carried away on a river of compliments as Sherlock lifted his wine to his lips, pointedly avoiding the sharpened steel glinting in Prince John’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Instagram and Twitter @consultingdr221 and on Tumblr as prettysherlocksoldier


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL it has a been a whirlwind of a month gang! I had a job interview, went on vacation, GOT THE JOB, and then had to long-distance apartment hunt, but now things have finally calmed down enough for me to get back to these lovesick losers!

After dinner, they all retired to the sitting room for tea, all but Prince John, who bolted from the table as soon as the last dessert plate was cleared away, retreating through the double doors like the room had caught fire behind him.

They kept the conversation light, the queen asking more questions about the origins of the business, all of them laughing at some of Molly’s better anecdotes about the throes of a startup, including an ill-advised speed dating event they’d sponsored at university.

As the hour grew later and the fire grew smaller, the queen stood, all of them rising after her.

“I’m going to turn in for the night,” she sighed, smiling across the group, “but I do hope you two aren’t too tired from your journey to stay up for the Christmas tree lighting.” Her glance skipped from Sherlock to Molly before hovering on Greg a second too long to be meaningless. “It was lovely meeting you both, and I do hope you’ll join us at the castle again soon, Molly. Otherwise, I’ll only have Sherlock to pester.” She wrinkled her nose at him, and he smiled, a soft laugh bubbling from Molly’s throat.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” Molly said, and the queen nodded her leave, all of them bowing in reply as she exited.

“Well,” Greg groaned, pulling his shoulders back and stretching his spine, “I’m gonna head back into town before the storm picks up again.” He then turned to Molly, his shy smile half illuminated in the wavering orange light of the fire. “Would you like to go to the tree lighting? It will be just as lovely tomorrow, if you’d rather return to your room.”

“No, I-I’d like to go,” Molly murmured with a nod. “There’s nothing I need to be up early for. Is there?” She frowned to Sherlock, who shook his head.

“Not that I’m aware of. Who knows,” he grumbled, “I may even be out of a job by then.”

“The prince will come around,” Mike assured, smiling at Sherlock’s climbing brow. “He just…takes a while to warm up to things. And he’s never appreciated being told what to do.”

“He doesn’t seem to have much trouble giving other people orders,” he muttered, and Mike chuckled, shrugging a shoulder as he finished off the lingering strip of scotch in his glass.

“Nature of the job, I’m afraid. Though he can get a bit…carried away.”

Sherlock flicked his brows, thinking that a solid contender for understatement of the year, and Mike laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he moved toward the door.

“It’ll be fine. I’ve got a good feeling about you two.”

“Sure it’s not the scotch?” Sherlock mumbled, and Mike’s laugh drifted back to him through the door as his silhouette disappeared across the foyer, the front door thudding shut soon after.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. There’s a meeting with some of the parliament members about security for the foreign dignitaries visiting for the ball. Everyone always wants an airport escort,” Greg muttered, rolling his eyes. “If you find yourself with some spare time, Dimmock can arrange a car into town.” He then shifted back toward Molly, placing a hand high on the small of her back and waving the other at the door. “Shall we?” he asked, and Molly giggled, shaking her head and blushing a brilliant pink as she looked at Sherlock across her shoulder.

“I’ll text you,” she promised, and then they were gone, Sherlock waiting until the door closed again before venturing out to the staircase himself, avoiding an awkward double goodbye.

He headed back up to his room, putting his suit back in the garment bag and climbing into pajamas trousers and the worn university hoodie he never left home without, the closest thing to a security blanket he would publicly admit to having. He gathered up the bundle of folders, turning toward the bed, and then paused, reconsidering as he looked down at the names scrawled over the tabs in Molly’s rushed script. Moving back to the desk, he pulled out all but John’s file, dropping them on the desk for tomorrow, and carried the single bright red folder to his bed, flipping it open in front of him as he sat cross-legged against the throw pillows, elbows pushing into his knees as he poured over the pages.

His Royal Highness John Hamish Watson was born on July 7th—a Cancer, lovely—in Lornes General Hospital, and most every moment of his life after had been carefully cataloged in newspapers, magazines, and sensationalized web articles. Sherlock ignored most of it, the public schools and family vacations and rose-colored photo ops and anything else that was exactly what he expected, mindlessly chewing on the plastic casing of his sweatshirt’s drawstring as the story got more interesting.

At 18, John moved to London to study medicine at Barts, an odd choice for his particular family business. Less than three months later, his father died, and he took the next semester off, staying in Galerre with his mother and younger sister until university started up again in the fall. In spite of the tumultuous beginnings, he achieved top marks in school, picking up the semester he’d missed by adding summer courses when he wasn’t home or even farther abroad doing humanitarian work over the holiday, and even finding time to compete on the university rugby team, which he was named captain of his final year.

After graduation, he immediately enlisted, training with the British Armed Forces—as was customary for Gallerean royalty—before returning to Galerre. On his insistence and against the advice of parliament, he requested to be deployed with the rest of his unit, haggling down the offered rank of captain to sergeant. Being a medic as well as a prince, he and his platoon were kept off the front lines, but lines in the sand had a way of blowing around, and a surprise attack would put them in the thick of a firefight that would leave John fighting for his life, a bullet ripping through his shoulder as he tended to the wounded. His courage earned him a medal—bestowed on him by his mother after he’d recovered enough for the ceremony—and a promotion, and he retired from the army as a captain, yet another name to add to his title.

In the years since, he’d spent most of his time abroad, traveling to foreign summits and obligatory weddings and funerals, but he remained involved in the country he would one day rule, spearheading many public policy changes as well as donating to everything from hospitals to daycare centers. He was active in the big and small, sponsoring marathons and cutting ribbons from the freshly dried concrete of a cutting-edge cancer research center, and polls suggested he was closer to beloved than liked, a true man of the people.

By all accounts, John Watson’s life, while not quite charmed, had been more or less on track. That is, until Lord Charles Magnussen had played his archaic trump card and made a bid for the throne. Now, he had less than a month to find someone he’d be able to tolerate for the rest of his life or throw away his birthright, turn his back on the country and people he loved so much, and Sherlock felt a pang of sympathy skitter across his chest, drawstring falling from between his teeth as he fell back into the pile of pillows with a sigh.

He supposed John’s hesitance was understandable. His arrogant rudeness less so, but the ‘let’s just get this over with’ approach to marriage at least made some degree of sense. He wasn’t indifferent, he was just out of time. Out of time and afraid, Sherlock realized, staring up at the canopy over his bed and trying to imagine what it would feel like to have a ticking time bomb strapped to your life.

Glancing at the clock, Sherlock realized he’d spent more time than intended pouring over the file, the glowing numbers now reading 11:07pm, and he collected the papers into a sloppy pile, placing the folder back on his desk before changing into a lighter shirt and climbing into bed. He turned out the light, rolling to one side, then the other, squeezing his eyes shut as he willed himself to go to sleep, but they always opened, watching the red dashes of the clock tick the night away.

Still awake as the time crawled to 11:50, Sherlock figured he might as well go down to the ballroom as the queen had suggested—when in Rome, as they say—and flung the blankets off with a huff, changing into a soft green jumper and worn jeans, not quite comfortable enough in the castle to show off his sleepwear yet. He pulled his socks from earlier that day back onto his feet and padded out the door, using the light of his mobile to navigate down the stairs to the first floor, the white glow seeming to bring the eyes of the portraits to life as he moved through the corridors, the hair on the back of his neck rising at the artificial sense of being watched.

The door to the ballroom was cracked open, but the large room appeared to be empty, his shuffling footsteps echoing over the ceiling as he padded to the glass wall. Lornes twinkled below him, the courtyard a glowing beacon in the dark, shadows of people moving through the light streaming from the lampposts. The tree was still a silhouette for now, and Sherlock glanced down at his mobile, seeing there were only a few minutes left. He had expected there to be at least someone else in the ballroom, but, he supposed, most of the staff lived in town, and those left here had likely seen it too many times to bother staying awake. Still, he wasn’t surprised to hear footfalls behind him, though he was surprised at who they belonged to as he squinted into the dim light.

The prince stopped just inside the line of moonlight the window cast across the floor, ice clinking through the brown liquid sloshing against the sides of his short glass. “Suppose I should have expected you would be here,” he said, a smile in his voice, but his expression was difficult to discern in the gloom, so Sherlock aired on the side of caution and bristled.

“You can leave,” he replied, and Prince John laughed, shaking his head as he drew closer.

“I deserve that,” he chuckled, and the set of Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed, his arms hanging loose at his sides. John moved to the window, but kept his distance, several feet between them as he looked out over the valley. A few seconds of silence passed as he sipped on his drink, and then sighed over the glass, the fog of his breath building and fading before he spoke. “I feel I should…apologize,” he muttered, rushing over the word like it burned his tongue, and Sherlock quirked a brow, his defenses bobbing indecisively as he attempted to read the tone.

“Oh?” Sherlock hummed, and John nodded, but said nothing more, Sherlock letting the expectant silence settle into disappointment before a small scoff whispered over his teeth. “Was that it?” he asked, and John turned to him with a frown.

“Was what it?”

“Your apology,” Sherlock clarified, folding his arms across his chest, hackles firmly raised. “Was that it?”

John lifted his chin, a corner of his lip twitching as a wrinkle pinched between his brows. “Yes,” he snapped, and Sherlock shook his head out over the town with a breath of disbelief. “What?”

“Last I checked, ‘I’m sorry’ was an essential component of an apology.”

“Fine, I’m sorry if you were offended by something I said.”

“You mean your condescending dismissal of my entire profession or the accusation of up-pricing?”

“I didn’t-” John started, fading away at Sherlock’s lifting brow, and then sighed, hanging his head a moment as he ran his free hand back through his hair, blue moonlight turning the straw strands to spun silver. “Look, all I’m trying to say is…I think we got off on the wrong foot. And, before you left, I just wanted to-”

“Wait, what?” Sherlock interrupted, something about John making propriety impossible. “I’m not leaving.”

John stared at him. His lips parted. Closed. His forehead furrowed. “You’re…not leaving?”

“No,” Sherlock sniffed, shaking his head. “Why would I?”

John’s lips thinned to a tight line, a stiff swallow clicking down his throat as he looked down at the ice swirling in his drink—scotch, Sherlock could smell now. “I thought I made myself clear at dinner.” He lifted his face and pulled back his shoulders, eyes bright and narrowed, braced for a fight, and Sherlock saw all at once the prince, the soldier, the father’s son.

A lesser man might have been intimidated. Or perhaps just a smarter one.

“So did the queen,” Sherlock replied, the syllables snapping tartly of the tip of his tongue. “She gave me a job, and I’m not leaving before it’s done.”

John’s eyes fluttered wide with barely restrained horror. “But Lestrade said…after you found out I didn’t know…you didn’t want to do it anymore.”

“And he convinced me to stay,” Sherlock clarified. “For the week, at least.”

“So you’re leaving next week?”

“Only if you’re a lost cause,” Sherlock muttered, lifting a brow, “which you seem determined to be.”

“I-I’m not-” John blustered, rattling his head with an incredulous huff. “You really don’t care who I am, do you?”

Sherlock sighed, looking back to the window, tired in more ways than one. He opened his mouth to say something he’d probably regret when the Christmas tree burst to life below them, diagonal rainbows of lights swirling up to the dark peak of the branches. The courtyard was awash with the colors, reds and blues blending in a patchwork quilt over the cobblestones, and Sherlock scanned over the applauding silhouettes, wondering which ones were Greg and Molly and if either had worked up the courage to so much as brush their fingers together in the space between their bodies. He cleared his throat, stepping back and smiling at John, who had turned away from the window at his movement. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he said, inclining his head over the title for added emphasis, and John quirked a brow at the formal tone, “but I must retire. I trust we will continue this lively conversation tomorrow.” He lay a hand over his ribs and bowed deeply as he took a step back, John’s expression flat and unamused when he lifted his face again. He turned, hands sliding into his pockets as he started toward the door, a secret smug smile twisting at the corners of his lips.

“I’m not a lost cause.”

The voice rang out behind him, Sherlock pausing to look over his shoulder in the dark.

Moonlight caught in the facets of John’s glass in amber shards, his expression shadowed as he looked away from the light of the window, but his posture was stiff, voice tight with control as he shifted his weight between his feet.

“I just don’t want any help.”

Sherlock smiled, though unsure he could see it, so he added a nod before replying. “Goodnight, Your Highness,” he murmured, passing through the door and pulling his mobile out again to guide him back to his room.

He was still awake an hour later, staring up at the triangular shadows of the leaded windows when footsteps creaked through the corridor outside. They paused at his door a moment, Sherlock staring at the spot in the wood he imagined John’s face sat just beyond, heart hammering in his chest as his breath stalled in his lungs, and then they moved on, a door squeaking shut at the end of the corridor a few seconds later.

Sherlock blew out a breath, rolling his back to the door and blinking across the mound of his pillow at the window, counting the snowflakes in an attempt to lull himself to sleep.

…142, 143, 144…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr at prettysherlocksoldier, or on Instagram and Twitter @consultingdr221


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND WE'RE BACK with John's perspective ooo and ahhhh!! I wasn't actually intending to include John's perspective in this story at its inception, but there were so many great scenes that popped into my head that simply could not happen with Sherlock present, so alas. I made more work for myself. Per usual.

John sat in the red, upholstered chair, fingers absentmindedly tracing the flat swirls of gold and white embroidery. His second press of coffee was almost drained in front of him, the plate of fruit and scrambled eggs Mike had insisted on bringing in barely touched beside it, though he had picked out a few strawberries from the sea of melon.

He had been up early after a restless night, Sally just starting her preparations for breakfast in the kitchen when he’d wandered down for caffeine. She’d started to make it for him, but he insisted on completing it himself, and she warily returned to her chopping, new enough to the castle that she wasn’t yet accustomed to his impropriety. She had gone through the effort to send something up with Mike later though, and John sighed, taking up the fork again and stabbing up a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

There. Breakfast.

He tossed the fork back onto the tray, standing up and walking to the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked out over the snow-sprinkled mountains framing the waking town below.

He had always Lornes at Christmas, the bedazzled streets filled to the brim with citizens and tourists alike, their festival growing in size as it grew in renown. He could remember, as a child, taking family walks through the festival, holding tight to his mother’s hand and breathing in the mingled scents of pine and mulled wine until his lungs strained against his tiny ribs, as if, if he could draw in enough of it, he could hold that moment next to his heart forever. He was too young to realize it was all a staged public appearance, too mesmerized by the towering tree and glittering garland to notice the drooped corners of his mother’s smeared smile or the veil over his father’s eyes. Too young to know he was staring down the ghost of Christmas future.

He dropped his eyes to the Parliament building, a heavy sigh rolling through his shoulders.

He had a meeting with Parliament first thing that morning. They would argue for cuts to budgets and halts in construction, he would argue for cuts to their imported car collections, they would meet closer to his side of the middle, and it would be on to the next thing, mindless meeting after mindless meeting, the members looking down their noses through narrowed eyes the whole time, the ticking clock over his position always on the edge of earshot.

John shook his head, brows pulling together as a bitter taste filled his mouth, the disgust still fresh.

He’d never liked Lord Magnussen, and the feeling had been mutual, that much an open royal secret. He knew his uncle’s beady little eyes were set on the crown, but he’d never dreamt he would go this far, forcing his nephew, his elder brother’s son, to get married or lose his inheritance, his legacy, his connection to his departed king and father. It was a lesson hard-learned, but, as his mother liked to say, that ensured it would never be forgotten.

But still. _Married_.

John swallowed, drawing away from the window and busying himself with selecting a tie, doubt not a luxury their timetable afforded him. He just needed to find someone not completely insufferable and walk down an aisle, no ifs, ands, or romance about it. Seemed simple enough.

At least simple enough that he didn’t need a bloody _matchmaker_ weighing in.

Sherlock’s smiling face swam in front of his eyes, obscuring the color-coded drawer of silk for a moment.

_“Goodnight, Your Highness.”_

The man had been bouncing around his head all night, his smug face and sarcastic inflection twisting into his dreams, a haunting specter of dark hair and glinting gray eyes. Even the thought of him quickened John’s blood, heat blooming in his palms and scratching at his cheeks. He was so… _arrogant_. Stubborn. Up so high on his horse, it was a wonder he deigned to speak to John at all, in spite of which one of them was literal royalty.

But, John hated to admit. He was also fascinating. Mysterious. Shrewd, but only in so much as he was brilliant, his eyes always alight with some secret understanding, the depth of his gaze lifting the hairs on the back of John’s neck.

And he was, without any doubt or reservation, the most stunningly beautiful human being John had ever laid eyes on.

The bastard.

John reached into the drawer at random, pulling out a muted lavender tie and declaring that good enough, stringing it through the collar of his white shirt, tiny navy dots embroidered into the cotton blend in a wide diamond-shaped pattern.

A knock came to the door as he tied the knot, and John beckoned the visitor in with a shout, moving out of the walk-in closet to check his work in the wide bathroom mirror.

“Did we ever hear back from Sir Lambden and…whatever wife he’s on now about the Military Ball?” he asked as footsteps neared the door, tucking his chin to line up a pale gold tie pin.

“I wouldn’t know.”

The pin dropped from John’s fingers, pinging across the marble countertop to slide into the sink, catching on the silver stopper.

“But I’d be happy to check for you,” Sherlock said from where he leaned against the doorframe, ankles crossed, a thin black binder dangling from his hand by the spine. He smirked, tipping his head, burnished curls shifting with the movement. “That is, if you don’t mind a little help.”

John’s throat tightened, his heart skipping against his ribs as he glared, anger the easiest cause to blame. “What do you want?” he snapped, snatching the tie pin from the sink and lining it back up, pinching tight to hide the trembling in his fingers.

“Nothing but to bask in your sunny disposition, sire,” Sherlock replied, and John ignored him, the best strategy to take with petulant children, or so he remembered from his younger sister. “I wanted to go over your schedule for the day,” he continued, stepping just inside the bathroom and opening the binder, tongue flicking out to dampen the tip of his middle finger as he flipped through the thin pages.

John forced a swallow through his strangled throat. “Why?” he snipped, smoothing his tie and starting toward him, hoping Sherlock would move before he got too close, not sure how well he would handle tight proximity.

“Because,” Sherlock said, backing out of the bathroom to allow him to pass, “I’m going to be accompanying you.”

John’s hands froze on the blue suit jacket draped over his desk chair, happy his back was to Sherlock so he couldn’t see his eyes trying to jump out of his head. “You…what?” he murmured, turning slowly around, Sherlock’s head already bowed over his binder, the tip of a pen tapping against a page.

“I’m going with you,” he simplified, glancing at John through his lashes before lifting his chin. “I need to get a better sense of your daily routine in order to know who best fits into it.”

John blinked at the top of his bowed head. “Do you stalk all your clients or should I feel particularly honored?”

“You can feel however you like,” Sherlock said, scratching a note on the page and lifting a small smile, “but, no, I don’t normally ‘stalk’ clients. But I also normally have more than three weeks.”

John dropped his eyes and turned back to collect his jacket, unable to argue with that fact.

“Oh, and I added a lunch with Lord Chaplin and Miss Jeanette.”

“ _What_!?” John whirled around, only halfway into his blazer, the other sleeve flapping at his side.

Sherlock smiled, flipping the binder shut with a crisp _snap_. “I have to meet her sometime,” he said, shrugging a shoulder, “and you’re already seeing her father for the Parliament meeting.” His smile sharpened at one edge as John’s lips flapped with breathless indignation. “And the queen thought it was a ‘ _marvelous_ ’ idea.”

John’s jaw clamped shut, his eyes narrowing to slits, but Sherlock only continued to grin, tucking his binder under his arm and starting for the door.

“I’ll meet you downstairs, Your Royal Highness,” he tossed over his shoulder, grabbing the doorknob in one hand and spinning around to drop a bow in the closing gap, John left glaring at a blank slab of wood as the door clicked shut.

He closed his eyes, drawing in and releasing a long, slow breath, fingers stretching wide as his fist unclenched. Rattling his head, he jerked the other sleeve of his blazer on, muttering to himself as he perched on the edge of his bed to slide on his waiting shoes, trying not to think about the cedar and clove left hanging in the air in Sherlock’s wake.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be up on Saturday but it's been a fucking WEEKEND y'all. Anyway, this chapter is 5k and will have to last you a while because I'm moving and plan to be unpacking or asleep for the next couple weeks.

“I understand cuts need to be made, gentlemen,” John said, his voice a saber’s edge, and Sherlock straightened up from where he’d been slumped against the wooden railing of the deserted public viewing area, “but surely there is something more trivial than public health that we can pull from.”

“The new hospital is a noble venture, sir, but it-”

“Will be the only fully equipped hospital within 30 kilometers, once it’s built,” he interjected, shuffling some pages on the wide table in front of him to pull up a map. “Over a hundred people within this radius died en route to the nearest hospital last year. The local facilities in that area simply aren’t equipped to handle complex surgeries or catastrophic injuries.”

“Perhaps, with updated equipment-”

“It’s not enough.” John shook his head, pulling a folder of photographs from the bottom of the pile in front of him. “You’ve all seen the same pictures I have. Modernizing the existing facilities to the level required would be a complete tear-down, and, at that point, it amounts to the same thing.” He tossed through the plastic sheets of photos, Sherlock squinting but unable to clearly make anything out. “We _need_ this hospital,” he said, pausing a moment to level a glance around the room, and then closed the photo folder, sliding it away and pulling another one into its place. “These proposed salary changes, however…” he murmured, his expression impassive as chaos erupted around him, a calm port in a sea of red-faced aristocrats frothing at the mouth.

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head down at the spectacle. It was a closed session, technically, but it seemed one could walk in just about anywhere on the heels of a prince, though they did have to stop at a security desk briefly for Sherlock to pick up a badge from an elderly man John greeted by name—Ali. A few heads had turned to him as he made his way to a central spot on the balcony, and then more as those few alerted their fellows, their faces distant but the confusion clear, and he’d heard John mutter what he assumed was an explanation and a lie, catching only the words “Mike” and “assistant”. Whatever John had said, it was boring enough not to be questioned, and business as usual had commenced, Sherlock tuning in and out as they prattled on about budgets and elections and infrastructure and similar words that made him yawn.

The content of the conversations might not have been a priority for his focus, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t paying attention.

While it was true he needed to spend as much time with John as possible within their short time frame, his motivation for getting up early to see if Mike would mind him tagging along for the day had not been entirely devoid of spite. Prince or not, if John thought he could drive Sherlock away from a job unfinished, he was _sorely_ mistaken. Though, watching John throughout his official meetings that morning, Sherlock would admit to having slightly underestimated his opponent.

John was firm, unyielding, delicately persuasive when necessary, but never unkind, however much Sherlock thought it was warranted. He was clever, a born diplomat, convincing his critics to adopt his ideas while also convincing them they came up with them themselves, but Sherlock could tell when it was wearing on him, the man of action not entirely left on the battlefield. He started to look tired, his shoulders rising and falling with deepening breaths, as if he was one more inane comment from snapping a neck, but then he’d take a long look down, pretending to adjusting his tie or tug at a loose thread on a button, and the pristine expression would return before he lifted his chin.

Sherlock wondered what he thought about in those moments, what memory or mantra John Watson used to steady himself. Perhaps, if literally everything changed between them over the next few weeks, Sherlock would ask him. Or be gone by the end of the week. Depending.

A gruff sniff sounded to his left, and Sherlock looked to see Mike shake himself awake again, his wilted newspaper perking back up in front of his face. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, smiling when he caught Sherlock’s eye. “Well,” he muttered, folding his newspaper and laying it behind him as he slid forward in his chair, “I think it’s time for a coffee break. You want one?”

Sherlock nodded. “Black, two sugars,” he said, arching it back and cracking his neck side to side. “Cheers.”

“Can’t have you falling asleep on the job,” Mike teased, standing to drop Sherlock a wink before starting for the door, escaping with practiced silence.

Sherlock smiled after him, and then turned his attention back to the meeting, which seemed to be wrapping up, the muscles in John’s neck tight with limiting restraint.

“Perhaps we should table this for another time, gentlemen,” John said as he stood, sweeping his papers into a loose pile and gathering them up. “Give everyone time to look over the proposals.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.

“Does next Thursday work for everyone? 10 am?”

Another series of nods and amiable grumbles.

“Very well,” John said, pushing his chair in and taking a step back. “I will see you all then.” He moved to the door as everyone else muttered and scraped their chairs away from the table, glancing up at Sherlock and nodding toward the stairs at the far end of the balcony.

Sherlock rose to his feet, gathering up Mike’s newspaper before shuffling through the bolted wooden chairs to the exit.

John was waiting at the bottom of the stairs looking like he just happened to be standing there, frowning down at the armful of papers he was shuffling in his hands.

Sherlock paused a few steps up, fingers tapping on the thin metal banister as he contemplated extending an olive twig. “You did well,” he murmured, flicking a wave toward the wall, “in there.”

John glanced up through his lashes. “I should hope so,” he muttered, tapping his papers into some semblance of a stack. “It’s my job.” He started away down the corridor, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at his back, making a note not to try _that_ again.

Through an open door halfway down the corridor was a small kitchen, which was where they found Mike, swirling cream into his coffee with a stir stick.

“Done already?” he asked, passing Sherlock his foam cup with a smile.

John hummed, handing Mike the pile of papers, which he slid into the side of his briefcase one-handed. “What’s next?” he murmured, and Mike glanced to Sherlock, lifting his own cup of coffee to his lips.

“Er…munch wit anette,” he mumbled against the rim, avoiding John’s questioning eyes.

“What?”

Mike took a long drink, slowing his swallow and clearing his throat. “Your, er, lunch with Miss Jeanette,” he muttered, and the line of John’s shoulders tightened.

“Right,” he grumbled, lifting his arm and tugging up his sleeve to check his watch. “Well, it will have to be wrapped up by 2. I’ve got that meeting with-”

“The children’s hospital fundraising committee,” Sherlock broke in, stepping up to John’s shoulder to grin into his narrowed eyes. “I’ve already informed Lord Chaplin that we will need to leave by 1:30.”

John avoided his eyes, tugging the cuff of his jacket back down his wrist. “Wonderful,” he snipped, spinning toward the door. “Well, let’s get this over with. I assume we’re going to some ludicrously expensive restaurant downtown?” he directed to Sherlock, sighing when Sherlock frowned. “Lord Chaplin has…distinguished tastes,” he muttered in explanation. “Especially when he’s not paying.”

Sherlock sniffed a laugh, a corner of John’s mouth lifting in response, a chip of ice falling away from his cold shoulder. A blink later and it was gone, John’s jaw tightening as he lifted his chin and turned away.

“Do you have the latest seating chart for the fundraiser?” he asked Mike, who nodded, moving to his side as they both started for the door, leaving Sherlock to follow in their wake. “I’d like to go over it in the car. Make sure they don’t have me next to Duchess Mayer again.”

“She does always give a sizeable donation.”

“When she takes her hand off my thigh long enough to sign the check,” John snapped, and Mike laughed, Sherlock trying to poke his head in between them.

“Duchess Mayer?” he echoed, brow furrowing. “I don’t have a file on her.”

“I should hope not,” John grumbled, Mike chuckling as he looked back over his shoulder.

“She’s sixty-two,” he said, laughing as Sherlock’s eyes blew wide. “Still pretty spry though,” he continued, looking back to John. “Remember her dance at Oktoberfest?”

“Shut up,” John grumbled, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, and Mike laughed, moving ahead to push the door open for them, the car already waiting at the curb.

Mike nodded to the driver—Francis, Sherlock thought he’d muttered in introduction when they set out that morning—before opening the back door, letting John and Sherlock slide in first before climbing in after them, taking the seat next to John, Sherlock sitting on the bench opposite to ride backwards.

They talked on the way to the restaurant, or, rather, Mike and John did, Sherlock listening long enough to declare it immaterial and gazing out the window instead.

Downtown was quiet, as workday afternoons were wont to be, a few people here and there carrying coffee or shopping bags, the streets growing more crowded as they moved out of the shadows of office buildings and into the shopping district near the square. As they continued to drive, Sherlock took note of the people, the subtle shift in demographic, heels getting higher and coats getting less faux as they drove around the center of town and into a neighborhood of older townhomes and restaurants declaring their incompatible fusion status. They stopped in front of a wide bank of windows, people in suits and tailored dresses dining at white-cloaked tablecloths inside, swirling gold script on the door and a sleek black sign hanging overhead denoting the restaurant “Stella’s”.

Sherlock tipped his head, quirking a brow at the scene.

Distinguished tastes indeed…

Mike stepped out first, holding John’s door open, his appearance garnering a few looks from the diners in the window, but, for the most part, the citizenry seemed to be used to him, returning to their meals by the time they’d reached the door

Sherlock held on to his fair share of curious glances, however, which only grew as they approached a table in the corner, murmurs rising up around them.

Considering they had kept his arrival a secret from even the prince himself, Sherlock doubted most of the general public knew a matchmaker had been brought in, but the lineage dispute and necessary nuptials were common knowledge, and he didn’t imagine it would be much longer before his identity made it into the papers either. He just hoped he could get in and out with his laurels before the news made it back to London.

A waiter ducked his head to whisper to one of the two people at the waiting table, and the man turned around, the shining bald spot on his head being replaced by a pointed nose as he twisted in his seat.

He was tall, Sherlock noted as he stood, what little black hair he had left slicked back on his pale skull and a sharpened smile peeling over stained teeth. “Your Highness,” he said, even his words somehow greasy as his swept his hands out in an elaborate bow. “How wonderful to see you again.”

“It’s been two hours,” John muttered, a clearing of Mike’s throat seeming to remind him of his manners, and he inclined his head, a stiff smile twisting at his lips. “Thank you for the invitation,” he replied, stepping aside as he tugged off his gloves, waving one over his shoulder in Sherlock’s direction. “This is…my associate,” he grumbled within the sea of tuned ears, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes,” the man crooned, reaching past John to take Sherlock’s hand, his palms clammy. “Lord Chaplin. An honor to meet you, truly. I read your interview in _The Guardian_ , riveting stuff, just riveting.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, his attention drawn beyond the man to a woman who rose behind him, adjusting the thin black belt over her sleek navy cocktail dress before turning her face up to him.

She was beautiful, for certain, her long dark hair drawn up into a bun at the top of her head, exposing the length of her neck and sharp features carved into the bones beneath her light brown skin. She looked to be about John’s height, but gained a few inches on him with the pointed black heels on her feet, a bold choice Sherlock couldn’t help but respect.

This was a woman who wasn’t shrinking for _anyone_ , royalty or otherwise.

“Might I introduce my daughter,” Lord Chaplin said, stepping aside and beckoning to her with an open arm, “Miss Jeanette Chaplin.”

She moved forward, inclining her head and extending a hand for Sherlock to take. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Though I feel I already have,” she chuckled as their hands fell apart. “My father has done nothing but sing your praises since we were informed you would be joining us here in Galerre.”

“Well, I do hope I can live up to some of them, at least,” he replied. “And, please, call me Sherlock, miss.”

“Sherlock,” she confirmed with a nod, her eyes drifting away from him, turning up at the corners as she smiled at John. “Your Highness,” she greeted with a small bow, John answering with a dip of his head. “It’s been a while. My cousin’s wedding this past summer, I believe. Though my father has had the honor more frequently.”

“A hazard of the job and an oversight on my part,” John answered, lifting a hand to his chest in contrition.

Jeanette ducked her eyes, tucking a nonexistent errant hair behind her ear with a shy smile.

“Well,” Lord Chaplin chirped, clapping his hands together, his eager eyes sparkling between the prospective couple, “shall we sit?”

They all shifted toward the table, a waiter rushing forward to pull out Sherlock’s chair, seating him—seemingly by prior design—between Mike and Lord Chaplin, directly opposite where John and Jeanette settled in side by side.

John pulled out her chair, the “couple” exchanging polite smiles before John dropped into his own seat, and Sherlock examined the tilt of their bodies, the slight stiffness in their adjacent sides. Some of it could be written off to nerves, he allowed, anyone expected to be uncomfortable with the prospect of facing an inquisition on their compatibility, but it looked like something more than that, something deeper.

He’d need another few minutes to be sure.

They did preliminary drink orders, John ordering a glass of wine and thus giving everyone else permission, Sherlock the only holdout, preferring to keep his head clear even at the cost of feeling every ounce of tension. Small talk occupied the time while they decided on entrees, but, with the arrival of the bread basket, all eyes slowly turned toward him, with the singular exception of John, who seemed intent on counting every sesame seed on his roll.

Sherlock cleared his throat, swallowing a swig of ice water. “Well…shall we stop holding our breath and dive in?” he said, an opening jest to lighten the leaden mood, and Jeanette laughed, her shoulders dropping away from her ears. “Would it be alright with everyone if I recorded this meeting?” he asked, glancing around the table as he pulled a digital recorded from his briefcase. “I’m a better listener when I’m not taking notes.” A lie, obviously, but a little well-placed self-deprecation had a way of putting people at ease.

“Of course,” Jeanette said, waving her hand at the device, everyone else shrugging and nodding in response. “Saves me the trouble of trying to read upside-down,” she teased, and Sherlock chuckled, pressing the red button on the recorder and clearing his throat again.

“So, I’d like to start with hearing a bit more about you,” he said, gesturing toward Jeanette. “I was told you studied in Spain for university?”

Jeanette nodded. “My maternal grandmother lived outside Barcelona. We would visit her often when I was a child, and I fell in love with the country and the people. And the weather,” she added with a gentle laugh. “She passed away when I was 16, and, so, when it came time to go away for school, I suppose I…wanted to be closer to those memories.”

Sherlock smiled, placing a hand on the table and leaning forward. “It seems like she had a profound impact on you.”

Jeanette nodded, her gaze far away. “She did. It was her who encouraged me to focus on my art, actually.”

“Oh, you’re an artist?” he asked, though he already knew, but it would stifle the conversation somewhat to let on he had read her entire life’s story before leaving the castle that morning.

Jeanette beamed. “Yes. Or, well, I’m trying to be.”

“Don’t be modest,” her father interrupted, and she dropped her chin and blushed as Lord Chaplin continued to Sherlock. “She has pieces in _several_ galleries all across Europe. Why, just last month we were at a show in _Rome_.”

“Dad,” Jeanette hushed, and Lord Chaplin shrugged, leaning back into his chair.

“Well, there’s no sense being modest, dear, not with a talent like yours. In fact,” he said, the tone of his voice turning pointed as he leaned around her to lift a brow at John, “I believe the prince himself has one of your paintings in his rooms at the castle.”

Sherlock carefully refrained from wrinkling his brow as he tried to recall any art he had seen while interloping through John’s rooms that morning, but a glance at John’s pinched smile told him there was no such painting to remember—at least, not in plain view.

“Indeed,” John muttered, taking a rather long drag of his wine, Sherlock clearing his throat to cut off Lord Chaplin’s opening mouth.

“Did you study art in university, then?”

“Oh, no,” Jeanette said, a smile on her face but a subtle wistfulness in her eyes. “I went for political science.”

Sherlock curled half his mouth politely. “Following in your father’s footsteps?”

Jeanette’s lips thinned as her smile tightened. “That’s the plan,” she said, her tone a half-step too high to be genuinely chipper, and Sherlock moved on, directing the discussion to the calmer waters of hobbies.

Jeanette was, by all counts, exactly what Sherlock might imagine one would want in a queen if he had ever had prior occasion to consider the subject. She was accomplished, well-spoken, philanthropic without being ostentatious. She had the right connections, the right upbringing, the right breeding. Sherlock doubted she had so much as a parking ticket in her past, should she ever be subjected to journalistic scrutiny. She was paper perfect, so to speak, a worthy queen for any king and country.

But Sherlock wasn’t looking for a queen for Galerre; he was tasked with finding the best wife for John, and, watching the two of them interact—or, rather, watching them _not_ —it became clear that John would be more inclined to have teeth pulled than grow old with the woman beside him.

He seemed to like her well enough as an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend had their similar age and noble breeding not necessitated considering her a romantic prospect, but was not remotely comfortable enough in her presence to make her a viable option for a life partner. He avoided eye contact whenever possible, his hands fidgeting with cutlery or the stem of his glass, and seemed to always have just taken a too-large bite whenever she turned to attempt to engage him in conversation.

Not that anyone was required to say much of anything in the presence of Lord Chaplin, who interrupted at every possible turn to regale them with anecdotes of Jeanette’s accomplishments while she dropped her gaze to shift penne around her plate. All fathers were proud of their daughters, Sherlock supposed, but most managed to brag without sounding like they were hawking prized cattle, the conversation somehow becoming a medical history as the entree plates were cleared away.

The waiter then reappeared, offering dessert menus, and Sherlock felt his shoulders drop in relief when John declined, cutting off Lord Chaplin’s stretching lips to ask for the check, which was delivered to Mike a few moments later by what seemed to be a preconceived understanding.

“As much I would enjoy dining with you all for the remainder of the afternoon,” John said, making a spectacle of turning his watch on his wrist, “I’m afraid duty never stops calling.”

“Of course, of course,” Lord Chaplin spluttered, his wine cresting up the sides of his glass as he set it down in a rush, pushing back his chair and signaling the table to rise to standing. “It was most gracious of you to arrange this luncheon, sir,” he said as he stepped past his daughter to shake John’s hand, John’s eyes flashing to Sherlock with something not so unlike guilt. “I do hope it has been illuminating. For you both,” he added, shifting his clammy grip to Sherlock’s fingers.

“Indeed, it has,” Sherlock remarked, and one of John’s brows climbed speculatively in the corner of his gaze.

“Wonderful,” Lord Chaplin crooned, presuming good news, and then stepped aside to give Jeanette room for her farewells.

“Your Highness,” she said, inclining her head to John before extending a hand, fingers curved softly downward. “A pleasure, as always.”

“Equally as constant, the pleasure has been all mine, Miss Jeanette,” John replied, lifting her hand a scant inch as he bowed his head toward it, their faces curved with matching rote smiles.

Sherlock slid his recorder off the table and fussed with turning it off on pretense of not watching, lifting his chin when Jeanette approached him a moment later.

“Sherlock,” she bade, extending a hand in a less formal manner, and Sherlock took it in kind. “I do hope we’ll meet again. You’re attending the Christmas Eve ball, I assume?”

He nodded. “With His Highness’s blessing,” he added, waving a hand at John when it slid from Jeanette’s gentle grip.

“To be determined,” John grumbled as he adjusted the collar of the coat Mike had fetched for him during the farewells, his eyes widening down at the floor, as if unaware he’d been speaking aloud until the words hit his ears. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he muttered, twitching at the knot of his tie. “The driver is pulling the car around,” he said to Sherlock’s shoulder rather than his face, and then strode past, Mike wishing Lord Chaplin a hasty goodbye as he was obliged to end their conversation and follow.

Sherlock blinked after them a moment, uncertain whether he should make some sort of apology, but a chuckle at his back put such worries at ease, a secret smile on Jeanette’s face when he turned.

“You don’t shy away from ruffling feathers, do you, Mr. Holmes?” she smirked, a coy shift back to formalities.

“So I’ve been told, miss. Though my primary school teachers were somewhat less…delicate.”

“I don’t doubt it.” A short laugh huffed through Jeanette’s nose, her gaze sliding from his eyes to a point over his shoulder. “Though I might call it courage,” she mused, and then dropped her chin, smoothing her dress as a cough sounded at Sherlock’s shoulder.

Lord Chaplin’s pointed face was closer than expected, Sherlock strangling a gasp in his throat and trying not to lean back too abruptly. “The car has arrived,” he said, gesturing toward the front window, a stiff-shouldered John ducking into the open door of their black car idling against the curb.

“Ah, thank you.” He turned, dipping a last smile to Jeanette before rushing out, grabbing his coat from the rack beside the hostess stand and draping it over his arm for the short stretch to the warm car.

Mike was waiting at the door, tugging it open and waving him inside, and Sherlock dropped into the upholstered interior with a _plop_ , shuffling across the black leather as Mike climbed in behind him.

“Nice of you to join us,” John muttered, eyes fixed on his smartphone screen.

“Missed me already?” Sherlock teased, and blue eyes lifted just long enough to narrow.

“Do you have the budget reports for the hospital fundraiser?” John asked, turning to Mike, who dove into the satchel at his side and produced a small stack of papers pinched together with a binder clip.

“Most of the same vendors are donating this year, but the linen supplier dropped out.”

“Did they now,” John hummed, placing his phone on his lap and flipping through the pages. “That’s Vincent’s company, right?”

“It was, sir. He recently named his son CEO.”

“Harrison?” John asked, eyes popping when Mike nodded. “God, last I saw him he could barely run a car, let alone a company.”

“He’s 24 now.”

“Oh, so he still can’t run a company,” John muttered, shaking his head down at the pages as he continued to peruse. “I was worried I was getting old for a moment there. Well, I’ll have a word with Vincent.” He let the packet fall shut, pulling his phone up to perch on top of the white paper. “See if the grownups can sort this out.”

“Very good, sir,” Mike said after a moment’s pause, and John’s posture stiffened, a brow lifting as he turned.

“You don’t agree.” It was a statement, a fact gleaned from years of working side by side, and more intuitive than Sherlock would have previously given him credit for, John’s nose seeming rather lifted against the world, at least from Sherlock’s low perspective.

Mike smiled, shrugging a shoulder. “I just think it might be better to go to Harrison directly. It was his decision, after all, and you will need to deal with him in the future if Vincent is taking a step back. It may garner more resentment than necessary for you to go over his head.”

John wrinkled his nose, as if the thought had already struck him but he resented needing to deal with it. “Fine,” he grumbled, somehow still charming even as a petulant child. “I’ll talk to him.”

Mike turned to the window, the curl of his lips visible to Sherlock alone. “Very good, sir,” he echoed, and John rolled his eyes with a fond shake of his head.

The venue for the committee meeting was back across town, toward the Parliament buildings, but they rolled right past them, continuing on to streets lined with trees rather than pavement. The car stopped in front of a large brick building, the red facade reaching up to a broad, arched roof of dark gray slats, like some historic hybrid of a schoolhouse and a theater.

Mike stepped out first, an awkward breath passing before Sherlock waved John out ahead of him, and then dithered at the door, frowning down at his mobile as he scrolled over a novel of a text. “I’m so sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m needed at the palace.”

John paused in adjusting the collar of his coat, the points turned up and his hair rumpled like a haphazard dodger. “What? Why?” he spluttered, glancing to Sherlock with a frantic apprehension he couldn’t quite parse.

“The queen is having a final meeting with some of the vendors for the Christmas Eve ball, and there are a few questions that require your input. Or, rather, my input on your behalf,” he added, stating the obvious with a tip of his head.

“Ah,” John murmured, glancing between his watch and the waiting wooden door. “Well...yes, I-I suppose you should go, then.” He lifted a fist, coughing into his fingers. “I imagine that sounds more appealing to you as well, Mr. Holmes,” he said, waving a hand at Mike with a thin-lipped smile. “You’ve thrown your fair share of events; I’m sure you have strong opinions on floral arrangements.”

Sherlock cut through the condescension, lifting a knowing brow. “Did you look me up?”

John blinked, lips flapping as a flush crawled into his cheeks. “I- What? No, I- I looked up your _company_ ,” he stressed, the muscles in his neck tensing. “Wanted to see exactly what flavor of farce I was getting myself into.”

A coy hum vibrated through Sherlock’s lips, earning him a tight glare. “Well, I’ll pass your floral compliments along to Molly. I have no head for those sorts of things, I’m afraid,” he added with an apologetic look to Mike, who smiled, shaking his head.

“No problem. Better for you to stay with John anyway, I would think,” he said, gesturing between them as John’s shoulders slumped in an expression of abject betrayal. “Have to make every second count.” His face split with a jovial grin, and he clapped John on the shoulder, fingers digging slightly into the wool. “I’ll send the car back to pick you up after the meeting,” he promised, and then swept back into the vehicle with a chipper wave, the car pulling away scant seconds after the door _thunked_ into place.

John watched it go, blinking at the brake lights as the car slowed around a turn, shifting his gaze to Sherlock only when it was completely out of sight.

Sherlock smiled, sweeping an arm up the narrow walkway leading to the front steps. “After you,” he beckoned with a small bow, and John rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath as he stomped toward the door, unaware of Sherlock grinning at his back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a drunken heart-to-heart to break the ice! 
> 
> This should be updating more regularly now that I'm all moved in and work has settled down, but I'll let y'all know if shit hits the fan.

The flames flashed over the white marble, hues of yellow and orange glinting off the fireplace surround and bouncing in the prisms of the crystal glass in John’s hand, the amber liquid within seeming to come to life with the flickering tendrils of light. John stared over the glass rim as a log shifted, spraying embers in dying arcs, and checked the clock on the mantel, considering whether he should stoke the fire or let it burn out. Not yet tired, he decided on the former, and placed his scotch on the small metal table beside the leather armchair, rising from the soft upholstery to crouch in front of the hearth, folding open the glass doors and dropping another small log into the flames. He adjusted the arrangement with the poker before sealing it off again, returning to his station and his drink, the ice cubes squeaking as heat cracked through in opaque spiderwebs. He took a long draw of the heady liquor, holding it on his tongue a moment to savor the top notes before tipping it down his throat, burning a path into the heat of his chest.

The day, however unpopulated, had been draining, his meeting with parliament in the morning and the lunch that wouldn’t end ensuring he was running on fumes before even arriving at the hospital fundraiser meeting, but he had tried to summon something from the reserves to at least appear present while the committee bickered about flatware and the inane like. Normally, it wouldn’t have been difficult, a plastic smile his default facial expression after so many years in the spotlight, but a pair of gray eyes prickling at the side of his face had prevented him from sliding into passive listening, keeping his nerves tingling and senses heightened.

After some initial fuss—particularly from the women among the group—Sherlock had positioned himself in a corner near the refreshment table, pulling a binder from his briefcase and making notes over the pages, his pen resting on his lower lip between scratched thoughts. He had been the picture of distracted, his head dipped down and brow furrowed, but John could feel the unwavering attention, sense his eyes drop away the millisecond before John glanced his way. It had made the palms of the hands John didn’t know what to do with sweat, his heart thumping in his ears, and he’d nodded mutely every time expectant eyes around the table had turned to him, no longer able to track the conversation. He was certain he’d agreed to more than a few things he would come to regret, but he was only human, and Sherlock Holmes was...something more, something inescapable, inexorable.

Incorrigible.

John drained the last of his scotch, stretching his arm to reach the bottle perched on top of the polished wooden bar cart he had wheeled over for the evening.

Sherlock had attempted to talk to him on the ride back to the palace, but John hadn’t been able to so much as look at him, his responses mumbled monosyllables until Sherlock gave up and took to staring out the window, leaning forward every now and then to extend his view of a particular building or person.

When they’d arrived back at the palace, John had disappeared to his rooms without so much as a backward glance, citing fundraiser preparations as his excuse for taking dinner in his suite, but there would be no doubt as to the true reason for his retreat. His pride stung at avoiding Sherlock, at giving him even that slim satisfaction that he was having any impact on John at all, but being able to take a deep breath was worth the wound, and he had felt his heart rate dip from the second the heavy wooden door had latched shut behind him.

He had heard Mike and Sherlock come up the stairs at around 9pm, their mingled voices and laughter muffled through the walls before twin doors thumped closed, but John had waited until nearly 10 before venturing out himself, his restless legs longing to wander along with his mind. He’d paced the ballroom window for a time, meandering into the kitchen for a cup of tea, and then retired to the library, starting the fire himself and graduating to scotch, tomorrow now a mere ten minutes away from the creeping hands of the mantel clock.

Thankfully, Mike had cleared his schedule tomorrow of all but a fitting for his suit for the Christmas Eve Ball, so it wouldn’t matter much if he was exhausted, but he knew he should consider going to bed soon regardless, if only to have his wits about him for his next encounter with-

“Quid for your thoughts?”

He started, leaning forward as he whipped his head to the side, though he already knew who was standing there.

Sherlock Holmes smiled from the doorway, the firelight stretching just far enough to catch on the peaks of his face, the rest swallowed in shadow. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt—QMUL, somewhat unexpectedly—and black pajama trousers, a subtle gray plaid crossing through the fabric in thin lines. His hair was flattened slightly on one side, as if he’d already tried and failed to sleep, everything coming together to form the picture of a bedraggled graduate student more than a successful CEO, and the shift rattled John so thoroughly he quite forgot he was supposed to be annoyed.

“We’re on the euro,” he said, and Sherlock chuckled, his bare feet soundless as he moved into the room.

“Lucky you,” he muttered, hovering at the arm of the chair beside John’s, his fingers fidgeting with the holes in the cuffs of his sweatshirt as he glanced down at the leather seat.

John lifted his chin a fraction of a centimeter, a voiceless invitation. 

A corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched, and he sat, the glow of the fire softening his features as he stared into the rippling flames. There was a heaviness in his gaze, eyes distant and searching from their sunken seat, and John noticed for the first time how tired he looked, the waning hour stripping away all arrogance to leave only a man grasping at straws just as desperately as he was.

A curiosity started to simmer in his chest, eager to know more about the fresh stranger now sitting in front of him, but the questions springing to mind all felt too sudden, too intimate in the static stillness of night, and John settled on the mundane for now.

“So,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse, “what’s the verdict?”

Sherlock didn’t pretend to not know what he was talking about, leaning back in his chair and regarding John with what looked to be forced neutrality. “Normally, I would be asking you that question.”

John huffed, looking back to the flames and taking a sip of his scotch. “Nothing about this is normal,” he muttered, and Sherlock only hummed, his head tilted expectantly as he continued to stare at the side of John’s face. He grew uneasy in the quiet—no doubt by design—and sighed, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head to the ceiling, letting his neck fall back to rest on the chair. “Jeanette is...fine. I suppose.” He shrugged a shoulder, the movement heavy and slow as the alcohol started to muffle his connection to his limbs. “A very capable woman.”

“Capable,” Sherlock echoed, as if for emphasis, reflecting John’s word choice back to him.

“I mean...she would make an excellent queen for Galerre.”

Sherlock hummed again, letting the silence pulse a moment. “What about for you?”

A beat of John’s heart wandered off, a stiff swallow clicking down his throat. His chuckle was a touch too shrill. “Aren’t I supposed to be lying on a couch when you do this?” he teased, but Sherlock didn’t so much as glance at the misdirect, a frown wrinkling the space between his brows as he leaned forward over his knees.

“John,” he said, the first time he had, and John’s blood lurched in his veins as his stomach flipped with the unexpected thrill of his name on Sherlock’s tongue, “I’m here to help you. My _job_ is to help you,” he added, the clarification pricking between John’s ribs. “But I can’t do that if you won’t be honest with me.”

John diverted his gaze to the ceiling, unable to meet the naked sincerity in Sherlock’s eyes. “What do you need me to be honest about?” he grumbled, licking his drying lips. “You’ve got my entire life in one of those folders of yours, I’m sure.” In the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock shake his head, an exasperated sigh whispering out of him.

“Yes, but those are just...details. Fodder.”

“Fodder?” John spluttered, dropping his chin, and Sherlock rolled a hand, dismissing his outburst with a quick jerk of his head.

“None of it tells me anything about who you _are_. Who you _really_ are, behind all the crowns and castles.”

“Well,” John murmured, uncomfortable with this particular shade of spotlight, “there’s only one crown. And it won’t be mine much longer.”

“Of course it will,” Sherlock said, as easily as one might confirm the sky to be blue or water to be wet. “Especially if you’re desperate enough to marry someone you can’t tolerate past the first course.”

“That’s not-” John started, and then emptied his lungs to the white moldings above them. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, his voice muted with liquor and exhaustion. “No one ever likes who they marry.” He blinked at the ceiling, his arm lifting to fold his hand under his neck where it was straining against the back of the chair. “Except my parents,” he mused, and then, catching himself. “And yours, I suppose.”

Sherlock smiled, his gaze soft but not warm when he glanced at John’s turning head. “No,” he said, shaking his head back at the flames, “not mine.”

John stared at the side of his face, watching the firelight pool in the hollows of his cheeks, his scotch-slowed mind stumbling for words.

“Have you ever been in love, John?” He turned, gray eyes slicing through him like twin swords, the space between his mouth and John’s ears seeming to stretch and bend the sudden words.

He blinked. “What?” he muttered, and Sherlock twisted toward him, shuffling to the edge of his seat and leaning forward, the drawstring of his sweatshirt swinging like a pendulum over his knees.

“Have you ever been in love?” he repeated, and John lifted off the back of the chair to curl forward, suddenly too open, too exposed.

“I…I don’t know,” he mumbled through a frown, swallowing down at the floor, glancing up to find Sherlock’s gaze still fixed on him, unrelenting and expectant. “Maybe.”

Sherlock quirked a brow.

“Once.”

The other brow lifted.

“In secondary school.”

Sherlock’s face fell, rumpling with confusion. “But…you went to an all-boys—” He stopped, lips ajar, the bridge of his nose creasing as his eyes darted side to side over the rug at John’s feet.

A sound rumbled through John’s ears, and he realized it was his own laugh, a deep chuckle rattling up his throat and rolling over his liquor-loosened lips. “So that’s what you look like surprised,” he said, and Sherlock snapped his mouth closed, lifting his chin with a reflexive glare. “That little tidbit didn’t make it into my file?”

“No,” Sherlock muttered, tone haughty in spite of his crimson cheeks. “But a schoolboy crush is hardly-”

“I’m bisexual.”

Sherlock’s next word died in his throat with a dusty gasp, and he coughed, one hand reaching for his throat while the other stretched toward the bar cart.

John leaned forward, still laughing, the confidence of turning tables roiling through his veins. “You really didn’t know?”

Sherlock shook his head, wrangling a can of seltzer from a drawer beneath the polished top and cracking it open.

“It’s no secret.” John shrugged a shoulder, looking back to the fire as Sherlock downed a few quick swallows. “Though, I suppose we don’t exactly advertise it. Never really been a need to make a royal proclamation out of it, but I never contradict the tabloids either.”

“Your-Your mother?” Sherlock asked, clearing his throat, and John barked a scoffing laugh.

“Of course my mother knows. She’s my mother, after all.”

Sherlock perched the can in his lap, flicking the metal tab with a _twang_ as one foot tapped an anxious meter into the carpet. “And she doesn’t… _mind_?” he delicately pressed, a thick swallow passing through his throat with a _click_ when John shook his head. “Then”—he leaned forward, seltzer dangling from his pale fingertips as he braced his forearms on his thighs—“why are there no men in the princess- the files Greg put together?”

John lifted a curious brow, but Sherlock rattled his head, promising either it wasn’t important or they’d get back to it eventually. “Nothing nefarious,” he said, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. “There just…aren’t any options.”

“Any?”

“None I care to explore,” John grumbled in amendment, and Sherlock chuckled down at the carpet. “Really, there’s only one within marriageable age: James Moriarty. But I’d rather die. If he didn’t kill me, that is.”

“Someone wanting to kill you? Boggles the mind,” Sherlock muttered, averting his eyes as he took a long drink of his seltzer.

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, he’s the illegitimate son of…some duke or other, I don’t remember”—he rolled a lazy hand in the air—“but the only male heir, so they have to acknowledge him. He’s always trying to…move above his station, though. So to speak.”

A dark, sculpted brow crept up Sherlock’s forehead. “So to speak?”

John shrugged, normally not one for gossip, but it was late, he was drunk, Sherlock was pretty, and Moriarty was a git, so alas. “He’s been… _linked_ to several wealthy men who, shortly after they part ways, become…less wealthy.”

Sherlock’s lashes fluttered in alarm. “He’s blackmailing them?”

John’s shoulders bobbed again. “So they speak,” he murmured around the lip of his scotch, a disbelieving _huff_ whistling through Sherlock’s teeth as he shook his head.

“And here I thought our royals were dramatic.”

“ _Illegitimate_ , he’s the _illegitimate_ son,” John stressed, but Sherlock only hummed, rising from his chair with a coy quirk of his mouth.

“Well, I believe I’ve intruded on your solitude enough,” he said, more a polite exit line than an invitation to insist otherwise, and he lingered behind his chair, his free hand resting over the leather back. He smiled, a soft curve pinching in his cheek. “Goodnight, Your Highness,” he bade, and made to turn.

“You don’t-” John started, words failing as Sherlock’s gaze fixed him again, firelight dancing within the coals of his eyes. He cleared his throat. “John is…fine.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, as if testing the sound on his tongue, the deep drawl sending a shiver down John’s spine. He smiled again, clipping a small nod. “Goodnight, John,” he amended, and then was gone, a pale specter silently rounding the corner to haunt the dark halls and John’s restless dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Instagram or Twitter @consultingdr221 or on Tumblr at prettysherlocksoldier


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